


Pharmacy Keys

by pekorama



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Overdosing, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Richie has neglectful parents, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Some violence just not graphic, Substance Abuse, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drug Use, Vomiting, and is addicted to pills, the f slur is used sparingly by the bullies as well as other homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-01-25 02:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12521016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pekorama/pseuds/pekorama
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is seventeen now, and neither he nor any of the Losers ever came face to face with Pennywise after the death of Bill's little brother. When he takes a volunteer position at the Derry Home Hospital, the last thing he expects is to be forced into an unlikely friendship with a pill-addicted boy named Richie Tozier.Official series playlist can be found on Spotify under Pharmacy Keys (Richie/Eddie)!This fanfic was discontinued prematurely, sorry for the inconvenience.





	1. Handshake of Carbon Monoxide

“ Save up all the days  
A routine malaise  
Just like yesterday  
I told you I would stay. ”  
ㅡ _Two Weeks_ , **Grizzly Bear**

“ A heart that's full up like a landfill  
A job that slowly kills you  
Bruises that won't heal  
You look so tired, unhappy.  
. . .  
I'll take a quiet life  
A handshake of carbon monoxide. ”  
ㅡ _No Surprises_ , **Radiohead**

* * *

Eddie felt the cold, rough concrete burn against his cheek. A pained sob wracked his entire body, and his mouth tasted like copper now. Everything was loud and bright. He winced with each hot jolt of pain that coursed through his skull. He could hear church bells ringing, with not a church in sight.

“Get up, pussy!” Henry spat, his words dripping with venom. He stared down at Eddie with piercing eyes, one bruised and swollen half-shut. He wiped his mouth, smearing the blood from his split knuckles over his lips, which were twisted into a sickening grin. 

Eddie rolled onto his side just as Patrick drew back his steel-toed boot and connected it hard with Eddie’s stomach. He laughed tauntingly as he stepped away, running his fingers through his greasy black hair. Another kick, this time from Victor, came fast into Eddie’s lower back. He bit down on his whimper, but they heard, and all grinned with encouragement. Henry rolled him over with his boot and placed it on his chest as Eddie started to gasp. His eyes lolled back as he recovered from the dizzying pain. “St-stop…”

“Aww, the queer’s gonna fucking cry,” Henry simpered, pretending to pout. Belch made crybaby motions and chuckled. Eddie muttered something barely audible. “Say something, fag?”

Eddie lifted his head off the sidewalk just slightly, and smiled with his cut lip. His speech was labored, interrupted by sharp gasps. “I… said… I think it’s sweet that you… failed… two grades… just to stay with me, Henry. That is why you’re… still here, isn’t it?”

Henry’s grin vanished. He grit his teeth and snatched Eddie by his shirt, his knuckles turning white. Eddie noticed out of the corner of his eye that Belch was backing away, seeming nervous. Henry laughed darkly, “I’m gonna _fucking_ kill you, loser.” He drew back his fist.

Pain exploded in Eddie’s jaw, and everything went black.

There was nothing but ringing in his ears, and then there was her, and her familiar voice. She sounded dim and distant, and for a moment Eddie thought he must be drowning. That would explain the tightness in his lungs and the fact that everything sounded like he was six feet underwater. There was a dry snap, a branch breaking, and one of his bullies groaned in pain. Eddie could see through his swimming vision that Patrick was doubled over, clutching his stomach. Beverly was holding a thick branch like a baseball bat, poised and ready to swing.

“Fuck off, slut. This isn’t your fight!” Henry growled, and was met with the resounding crack of her knuckles colliding with the bridge of his nose. He cursed loudly, desperately trying to contain the stream of blood gushing onto his hands, clothes, the sidewalk. He staggered away, and Victor caught him and urged him to run. 

Eddie was suddenly aware of another kind voice, a boy’s, that had been speaking to him this whole time. He was muttering words of reassurance. “You’re going to be okay, Eddie.” It was Ben, crouching beside him. He sat down and placed Eddie’s head gently in his lap.

“If you tuh-t-touch Eddie again I will f-fucking kill you!” Bill screamed after them.

“Beverly, where’s his inhaler?” Ben asked, his voice sounding scared half to death. 

“Shit.” She tossed the branch away and dropped to her knees, scanning the sidewalk and the gutter for any signs of it. Bill checked the grass. With a trembling hand, Eddie reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and retrieved it. It was one of the few days he wasn’t wearing a fanny pack. Ben smiled despite his worry and helped the inhaler to Eddie’s mouth.

“Deep breaths, Eddie. It’s okay now.”

Eddie nodded his thanks and triggered a blast, bracing himself against the bitter taste. His double vision was slowly returning to normal, but his head still throbbed. 

Beverly circled around and sat on her haunches, looking almost ethereal in the orange glow of sunlight. She grinned warmly and pulled a wad of tissues from the pocket of her shorts, then leaned forward and began to clean the blood from his nose. His nose hurt, a lot. Thankfully, it didn’t feel broken.

“H-how you fuh-feeling, Eddie?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Eddie managed, and closed his eyes, “I’m feeling fuck.” 

“Fuck is _right_ ,” Beverly agreed. “What the hell happened here? Henry’s face was all messed up before I even got to him.” 

Eddie smiled weakly and raised a hand. “Guilty.” 

“Really? You did that to him?” Ben laughed, “I just thought one of his friends must have punched him by accident when they were aiming for you, like the Three Stooges or something.” 

Bill sat on the sidewalk beside Eddie. “E-Eddie’s five whole fuh-feet of k-kick ass.” 

“I’m five foot four, asshole.” 

“What set them off this time?” Bev asked, raising an eyebrow. She reached into the other pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Bill, who just shook his head. Through breaths of smoke, she added, “Was it because you’re short, asthmatic, or because they think you’re gay?” 

“I think all of the above today.”

“Ooh, combo,” she said with a dry laugh. She sat on the sidewalk, her legs stretching across the road, and took another drag. Her smile didn’t last long. “I’m sorry this keeps happening, Eddie. I wish we’d been here sooner.”

Eddie just shrugged. “S’not your fault.” They sat in silence for a while.

“This suh-sucks,” Bill said, and they all nodded in agreement. He stood up suddenly and held out his hand for Eddie to take. “Cuh-c’mon. We’re g-getting ice cream. On m-me.” 

Eddie stared up at him for a second, squinting against the harsh glare of sun. His hair was disheveled, his eye bruised, traces of blood still lined his nostrils. He cracked a smile and took Bill’s hand. “I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

It seemed like being a kid would never end until Eddie blinked, and it was all over. The Losers were seventeen now, all high school seniors except for Stan, and on top of all the bullies and the bullshit, he suddenly had to worry about college.

“It doesn’t help that I’ve been to like, five gym classes in my entire life.” 

“You should volunteer at the hospital,” Stan said, and took a precise lick from his vanilla ice cream. On the way to the shop, they’d run into Stan and Mike riding their bikes. Ed grinned. He always enjoyed watching Stanley eat, because he did everything with perfectly calculated symmetry. With ice cream, he would lick until it was rounded all the way to the end, and _then_ (and only then!) would he eat the cone. Stan raised his eyebrows and gestured to Eddie with the hand holding the cone. “I’m serious. That would look great on an application.” They were sitting outside now, sprawled across the grass in a misshapen circle. Bill and Stan were beside each other, their hands almost touching, and Bill insisted on looking anywhere but at him.

“You can do that? I thought you had to like, go to med school.” 

“I think he means janitor or office stuff, Eddie,” Mike interjected. 

Beverly’s eyes widened and she made an urgent noise through a mouthful of rainbow sherbet. She waved her hand and swallowed hard, eager to speak. “Yeah! I think I saw a flyer for that,” she began, looking at Stan, “and, uh, ugh god, it had this really stupid title that made me piss myself laughing. Stan, do you remember?” 

Stan turned to her with a knowing grin. “ _Hey, Teens!_ ” 

Bev snorted with laughter. “Yes! Thank you. Just when I thought they couldn’t make free labor any more appealing.” She flopped onto her back, resting her head in the long blades of grass. Her tongue was rainbow-colored. She was wearing a flowy yellow shirt and heart-shaped glasses (Ben had been tripping over himself all day). 

Mike chimed in, “You’re a shoe-in. You practically live at the hospital already.” 

Eddie scowled at him. “I do not! Back me up here, Bill.” He cast a pleading glance in Bill’s direction. He smiled awkwardly and shrugged.

“I-it’s suh-sort of true.” 

“You guys are the worst.”

* * *

Eddie had adopted a very simple philosophy in life: If Stanley Uris gave you advice, you took it. Advice from Stan was like God himself opening up the clouds, floating down, and yelling at you with a megaphone the exact best option in any given situation. 

And as usual, Stan was right.

It was a pretty sweet gig. Sure, he didn’t get paid, but his daily tasks weren’t really hard, and he enjoyed having a little structure in his life. He kept himself busy with small chores here and there, like doing the laundry, mopping up spills, or organizing the medicine closet. It was the sort of stuff he would be doing at home anyways. At least here it counted for something. And doing chores meant he didn’t have to think. He didn’t have to think about how he never felt things for girls like Bill or Ben did. He didn’t have to -

_Stop thinking about it._

“Hey, Eddie? Could I speak to you in my office for a second?” the head doctor, Chamney, called after him, half-leaning out of his office door. He beckoned with one hand, and took a sip of lukewarm coffee from the mug in the other, which read ‘World’s Best Boss’. He made a sour face for a moment, and then quickly covered it with a smile. “This coffee tastes like shit.” 

Eddie stared at him, wide-eyed with panic, wondering if you could get fired from a volunteer position. “I can make you new coffee if you want -”

The doctor laughed and shook his head. “No, no. Nothing like that. You’re doing a fine job.” He glanced around and then jerked his thumb back into his office. “Just come in for a sec. I have a… favor to ask you.” His boss stepped to the side and held the door open for him. Eddie cocked an eyebrow, but set his mop against the wall and went in all the same. As he did, the doctor added a hesitant, “I don’t want you to feel pressured to say yes. I wouldn’t even be asking if I weren’t desperate.” 

Eddie had the urge to say ‘ _Please don’t molest me_ ’, but all that came out was, “What’s up?”

The doc made his way around his desk and sat down in a ratty-looking chair. He set the mug of coffee down on a stack of paper, not noticing that it left a stain. He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk.

“Last night a patient that we can only assume is about your age was brought in. He’s been here before, actually. A couple of times, and all for the same reason. A pill addiction.” He cleared his throat. “A stranger called the ambulance so we don’t have the contact information for his parents. And on top of it all, he has refused time and time again to tell us who he is. No first name, no nothing.”

“Can he talk at all?” 

“ _Can_ he?” the boss asked, and gave a dry laugh, “The problem is that he never shuts up!” He flushed slightly and cleared his throat. “I mean, erm, don’t get me wrong, he’s a pleasant person to be around. He swears like a sailor, but he makes jokes and is nice to the nurses. It’s just that as soon as any of us ask ‘what’s your name?’ or ‘where do you live?’, he just... clams up.” He made a gesture like he was sealing his lips, locking it, throwing away the key.

“So… what -”

“What do we want you to do about it?” The doctor scratched his neck. He thought long and hard, as if it was the first time he’d actually considered the question. He finally broke the silence with a, “Well, I was hoping you could talk to him. Actually he uh, he asked to speak to you. _You_ , specifically.” He threw up his hands before Eddie could ask why. “I’m not sure why. I’ll show you a picture. Maybe you know him.” 

The doctor stood from his chair, and made his way to a stout grey file cabinet in the corner of the room. He crouched down, unlocked it, and began sifting through, until he brought a particularly empty folder back with him and slid it across the table. 

He continued to explain, “We really do want to help him, but we can’t keep him here without any coverage. We’re already pushing it just having him here for a couple of days.”

There was a single sheet of paper inside. He skimmed over the boxes. Name, unknown. Age, unknown. Everything, unknown, typed in big blocky letters. Attached with a little green paperclip was a picture: He had a thin, very pale face. His cheekbones were high, his hair wavy, his cheeks sun speckled. His eyes were magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses. He was grinning widely, and seemed vaguely familiar.

“I think I’ve seen him around in my school before,” Eddie said and handed the file back, “but I never talked to him, and he went missing after sophomore year. I’m sorry... I don’t really know him.” 

The doctor sighed, steepling his hands and pressing them to his lips. “Would you like to?”

* * *

Eddie’s eyes grazed over the cream-colored wall, the door left slightly ajar, the room number and the clipboard suspended in a plastic container. He stepped into the room, inhaling its lemon-scented air. Warm rays of light filtered in from a window on the far side. It was painted white and propped open, causing the curtains to flutter lazily back and forth in the mid-September breeze.

The boy was sitting in the hospital bed which had been adjusted to look more like a lawn chair. He noted with a vague sort of sadness that his bedside table was empty. No cards, no flowers, no balloons. The otherwise silent room was filled with the cheery blips of a Gameboy, which the kid was staring at intensely, his tongue sticking just slightly out of his mouth. 

“Um, hey…” Eddie said in a low voice, trying not to scare him. The other boy didn’t look up, or blink, or show any indication that he knew he was there. He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “ _Hello_?”

He startled, staring up at Eddie like a deer caught in the headlights. Then he grinned, and his smile was broad and bright. It lit up his face, and made the dark shadows underneath his eyes just a bit less prominent. “Oh! Hey. Sorry.” He set the game down in his lap.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, not sure what else to do with his hands. “Hey, uh, you used to go to my school, didn’t you? I think we had pre-calc together…” he trailed off at first, and then added, “What happened?” 

He shrugged. “I dropped out, I guess. Didn’t see much of a point in it. I didn’t think anybody noticed -” He hesitated mid-sentence and shook his head, glancing down at his lap, “I’m glad somebody remembered me.” Before Eddie could speak, he eagerly changed the subject. “Anyways, I had two questions for you.” He held up two fingers of a pale hand, exposing bruised knuckles and bloody fingernails, riddled with picked hang nails. “Question one: what the fuck happened to your face?” 

Eddie snorted with laughter. “Ever heard of Henry Bowers?” 

“Woof,” Mystery boy said, inhaling sharply. “Another thing I don’t miss bout Derry High.” Switching gears again, he dropped one finger, “Second question: can you beat this dungeon for me?”

“The what?” 

“You know… like, Link’s Awakening?” He held the console up to Eddie, looking defeated. “I’m on the eighth dungeon and it’s fuckin’ impossible.” When Eddie didn’t take it, he set it down on the bed and threw his legs over the edge. His bare feet met with the cool linoleum floor and he turned briefly to reach under his pillow. He withdrew a red pack of cigarettes, popped it open, and took one, then offered it to Eddie.

“Are you _seriously_ going to fucking smoke? In a hospital?” Eddie hissed, lowering his voice. 

“Chill, I’ll do it out the window,” he said with a laugh, “do you want one or not?” 

Eddie shook his head. It occurred to him for the first time that the other boy was wearing normal clothes as opposed to the usual hospital gown, and he realized it was probably because, just like with everything else, he’d been completely uncooperative. Thank god he was wearing jeans, since he was now sitting on the window sill, one leg up and the other trailing out the window (don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall). The sun was already setting, and the boy smiled as he brought the menthol to his lips, enjoying its icy flavor. 

“You don’t smoke?”

“I have asthma.” 

“Good,” he said resolutely. And then smirked. “Obviously not good that you have asthma. You know… the other thing.” 

“About the dungeon… I uh,” Eddie began, his tone almost guilty. He rubbed his arm and shrugged. “I don’t exactly know how? My mom doesn’t let me play video games. She says the little screens will give me brain cancer.” 

Richie stared at him in disbelief, and then broke out into howls of laughter. “Wow. Oh my god, that’s hilarious. I feel bad for you.” Eddie just rolled his eyes and snatched the gameboy from his hands. Without thinking twice, he sat on the foot of the hospital bed, a bit surprised by its give. "Your mom sounds like a real catch."

“Okay, but,” he said as he was picking it up, “only if you answer a question.”

Richie glared at him, but smiled good-humoredly between puffs. “Okay, shoot.”

“What’s your name?”

He chuckled, trails of smoke drifting from his mouth. “Oh, I know this one. It’s Richie.”

Eddie smiled wryly. “Got a last name, Richie?”

“We’ll get there.”

* * *

“Fuck you!” Eddie groaned, rubbing his eyes. “That’s bullshit, I was so close.” 

“Yeah, you gotta watch out for that guy. He does like, double damage.” Richie pushed up his glasses. They were both sitting on the side of the bed now, leaning towards each other, eyes glued to the screen. “Still, you’re really good at this game.” 

Eddie regarded him with a shit-eating grin, “Ever considered that you’re just really awful at it?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” Richie grumbled, barely hiding his smile. He stood up and returned to the window, and lit another cigarette. Eddie kept playing, muttering a steady stream of curses. Richie’s smile faded the second he turned away. It grew thin, and sad. Had Eddie been watching, he would have seen tired, empty eyes in the glass pane’s reflection, and a face too mature for his years. He wouldn't let Eddie see that. Keep smiling. 

He climbed onto the ledge again and stared out, embracing the chill of night. “Maybe you should keep it.” 

Eddie laughed absentmindedly, still staring at the screen. When Richie said nothing else, his smile fell. 

“What?” Eddie said, “Richie, I _can’t_ -”

“I’m serious.” Richie said with a limp shrug. “You’re good at it, better than me at least.” He drew the smoke into his lungs and felt it swirl and burn in his throat. He liked its black, acrid taste. He finally met Eddie’s eyes, and smiled reassuringly. “I don’t need it anymore. It’s my thank you gift for putting up with me for…” He turned and glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table, “two hours, apparently.” 

“ _What?_ Two hours?” Eddie choked, staggering to his feet. “Oh shit, my watch didn’t go off… I’m supposed to be home already.” In a blind panic, he shoved the gameboy into his pocket and started fumbling for his things. “I-I'm sorry... I have to go. This didn’t feel like two hours… Fuck, my mom’s gonna kill me.” Richie said something about ‘not if the cancer does first’, which fell on deaf ears. 

“Eddie?”

Eddie turned at the door, eyes still wide with panic. “Yeah?”

“I know you were just hanging out with me because the doctor asked you to find out who I am.” Eddie’s heart sank, but Richie didn’t seem bitter about it. He knocked on the wall beside the window with that same, saddeningly bruised fist. “Walls are paper thin here, probably so it’s easier to hear when people are dying.” He took a long drag from his cigarette and then, before Eddie could move to protest, ground the lit end into his leg. He did this without flinching, even as it sizzled against his skin. Eddie wanted so desperately to shout ‘what the fuck’, but settled for giving him a deeply disturbed look. 

“My point is,” Richie continued, and then switched to the voice of an Italian mobster, “Ah’ll be outta yer’ hair before ya’know it, see?” He coughed and then laughed, sliding back into his normal voice. “My parents can’t afford this shit so I’ll just stay until they kick me out, as usual. Fuck American healthcare.” 

Eddie was silent for some time, searching for the right thing to say. “Do your parents know you’re here?” and somehow he knew that this wasn’t the right thing to say even before the words left his mouth.

He saw a flicker of hurt pass across Richie’s face, and then he was smiling again like it was nothing. “If they’ve even noticed I’m gone, they’ll know I’m here,” he said, his fingers ghosting along his pack of Marlboro’s, hesitating, withdrawing, “where else would I be?” 

Eddie’s voice was soft and sympathetic. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Richie said, and watched him go. 

Eddie dashed down the hallway and was half-way across the parking lot by the time he realized Richie’s game was still in his pocket. He didn’t turn around, knowing he’d be back tomorrow. 

Richie smiled to himself as he sat on that window sill, watching the stars. A nurse would be in soon, and she’d call curfew, and he would lie in bed, sleeplessly, just like he did every other night. He’d think about Eddie, and feel a flutter in his heart and a funny sort of loneliness that was almost happy, because he was finally missing someone, and not just alone.


	2. The Less I Know The Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie struggles to cope with his feelings of jealousy when Richie reunites with an old friend.

“ So many people falling in love,  
You and me, watching the sea  
Full of people. Try not to drown. ”  
ㅡ _Chemtrails_ , **Beck**

“ Oh, no, no, no, no,  
I can't escape anything in this town.  
Knock yourself (out). ”  
ㅡ _It’s Getting Boring By The Sea_ , **Blood Red Shoes**

“ Oh my love, can't you see yourself by my side?  
No surprise when you're on his shoulder like every night. ”  
ㅡ _The Less I Know The Better_ , **Tame Impala**

* * *

Richie hardly slept anymore. 

The pills made him antsy, easily distracted. Or maybe that’s just how he was. His dad always said he wasn’t quite right in the head, and his teachers agreed. Just another reason to rely on the pills; He could pretend that it was the drugs doing this to his brain. That meant that he could stop, and he could change, and have some semblance of normality. When he did sleep, it was usually empty and light. Very rarely did he dream, and he was fine with that. It was nightmares, usually, and he was fine with that too. The great thing about nightmares was that he’d be relieved to wake up and find himself in the same place as always. The kicker was that good dreams hurt him the most. 

In good dreams, everything would be bright and warm and yellow. His mom would be smiling, and when she saw Richie she would only smile brighter. Sometimes, if it was a really good dream, she would sneak up behind him and tousle his hair, and when he would blush and push her away, she’d laugh so sweetly. His dad would be reading the newspaper. He’d glance up and crack a joke. Richie wouldn’t find it funny, just familiar, so he’d laugh anyways. The three of them would sit down at their tiny breakfast table in their tiny kitchen, and they’d eat cereal together. That was a good dream. 

And then he’d wake up, and for a few fleeting moments, he could see that bright, that warm, that yellow in his own world. It was in his curtains and the wallpaper. He’d wonder how he got there, and then it would all make sense. He’d remember that his mom never smiled at him, or tousled his hair, and his dad never cracked jokes. Seeing him just made her sad, and him, angry. He could smell the whiskey on her breath so clearly then, even just from his memory. 

Good dreams gave him everything, and then took it all away. He had a good dream that morning. The cereal was Froot Loops. She kissed his forehead and said it was a special treat. She loved him. She _really_ loved him. 

And then he woke up, and there was yellow in the sunshine that filtered in through his hospital window. There was yellow in the bouquet of wild Marigolds that Eddie had picked for him on his way to work. There was yellow in Eddie’s shirt, because he was standing at the door with a half-angry, half-giddy expression. Richie reached for his glasses and squinted at the other’s face, which kept flickering between a bouncy smile and a look of absolute disdain, like some possessed talk show host. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” 

Richie blinked and groaned, raising one hand to block the sun’s harsh glare. Nothing made sense to him right now, his mind still foggy with sleep. When he blinked again, clearing his bleary eyes, he realized what Eddie was talking about. His heart skipped a beat, and he sat upright, crawling onto his knees. “No way! You got the stuff?” 

“Keep your voice down!” Eddie scolded, and cast a hesitant glance into the hallway before pulling the door shut behind him. He made his way to Richie’s bed and emptied the contents of his pockets. Several donuts, multiple flavors and some in better shape than others, spilled onto the blankets, scattering multicolored sprinkles in all directions. 

Richie beamed up at him, stars in his eyes. “Oh my god. Eddie, you’re amazing.” 

“You should’ve seen me out there. I was like James Bond,” Eddie said, grinning triumphantly. He took a seat close to Richie, his waist brushing against his arm. “You pick first,” he said, “and if a nurse sees you with these, you acted alone. _Got it_?” 

Richie nodded solemnly and saluted with one hand, the other already holding a half-devoured chocolate donut. “Aye, aye, captain. It’s not like I have a reputation to uphold around here anyways,” he mumbled through a mouthful of sugar, and then added in an annoyed voice, “It’s such bullshit that you’re not allowed to take food from the snack table. Like, you’re a volunteer, you’re not getting paid anyways. The least they could do is give you some donuts.” 

“Tell me about it.” Eddie carefully selected a crumpled Boston cream from the pile. They were silent for a moment, both eating happily. Richie mused about how good real food tasted in comparison to hospital food, to which Eddie snorted, pointing out that he’d only been in the hospital for a few days. Then his face took on a quiet, thoughtful expression. After sometime, he chuckled to himself. 

“What?” Richie asked.

“It’s just weird. We’ve only known each other for a few days.” 

Richie tilted his head. “Why is that weird?”

Eddie bit his lip and shrugged, suddenly breaking eye contact. “I don’t know… I was just…” he trailed off, and began fidgeting with the hem of his shorts until he found the words again, “I was thinking of bringing my friends to meet you some time. Would that be… weird?” 

Richie swallowed and raised his brow. “Weird for them or weird for me?” 

“Why do you think I’m asking you and not them?” Eddie said in a weakly joking voice. 'Weird' was starting to sound less and less like a real word, and Richie’s non-reaction was unnerving him, so Eddie shook his head. “Forget it. That was a dumb idea.”

Richie startled, shaking his head emphatically. He reached out and briefly brushed his hand over Eddie’s arm. “It’s not dumb! It’s not dumb. I was just thinking. Do you really... want that?” He was picking at the skin around his fingers now, less out of interest and more out of a mindless necessity. He was scared. Scared that this was all just pity. 

“Of course I do.” Eddie smiled warmly, and Richie’s nerves eased a little at the way he seemed to light up the room. “You’ll probably be out of here soon and, I don’t know, I thought it would be cool if you didn’t have to be alone.” 

Richie grinned devilishly. “I don’t know, chief, I think the brooding life sort of suits me…” he said in a gruff voice, his best impression of your average moody action hero. Then he laughed, and the sound was delayed, and not at all convincing. He fell silent for a moment, staring out the window. There was a woodpecker outside, somewhere. He could hear its insistent drilling, but not see it. He finally turned back to Eddie, looking the most solemn Eddie had seen him. “Do you think they’ll like me?” 

“They’ll love you.”

* * *

“Wait a minute.” Bev stopped sipping her cherry slushie at this part of the story, her face suddenly intense and concerned. She slowly removed the straw from her mouth, took it in her fingers and starting breaking aparts the ice chunks at the bottom of the cup. The whole time, she kept her eyes trained on Eddie. “Describe this guy.” 

Eddie gave her a puzzled look. “Uh… black, wavy hair. Taller than me ㅡ” He punctuated each of these remarks with a gesture or a wave of his hand. 

“Gee, that really narrows it down,” Stan deadpanned, earning a glare, and returned with a teasing smirk. He had taken his eyes off of his book now, interested to see where Bev was going with this. 

Eddie turned back to her, who was looking even more disturbed by the minute. “Ummm, and giant glasses.” 

“ _Holy shit._ ” 

“W-what?” Bill asked, his head snapping up. He glanced around, clearly having not paid attention until now. He was sitting cross-legged on the hallway floor, hunched over a math textbook that was open to a page titled ‘Logarithms’. Stanley was sitting beside him, and Bill would occasionally nudge him to ask a question. Stan would explain the concept to him carefully, but Bill’s eyes would glaze over and he’d end up looking even more lost in the end. 

“Holy shit!” Bev repeated, a wild-eyed smile taking over her features, “That’s Richie Tozier! My old smoking buddy!” 

Mike, who had been stabbing aimlessly at grey-looking mashed potatoes (cafeteria food, of course), dropped his fork, nearly choking on air. “The guy you used to smoke with under the bleachers? As in, the guy who died after sophomore year?” Her mouth fell open. Bev and Eddie both moved to ask what the fuck he was talking about, but Ben was already nodding in recognition. 

“I heard he was murdered,” he said, with a shrug, “They said somebody drowned him in the canal.” 

“I h-heard it was a cuh-car accident.” 

“Mauled by a bear,” Stan added, holding up his finger. 

Eddie and Beverly exchanged a look of matched confusion. “What the hell are you guys talking about?” he finally said, “He didn’t _die_. He dropped out.” 

“He dropped out?” It was Beverly again, and she sounded almost hurt. 

“Yeah, as opposed to _dying_?” he replied, nonplussed. His eyes flickered from Bev to the crowded hall around him, and then to the Losers, all the while half-expecting that he was on Candid Camera. “Did you think he was dead?” 

She laughed and rolled her eyes, taking one last slurp of sugary cherry goodness. Eddie wondered to himself why her tongue was always stained a different color every time he hung out with her. “Obviously not, dumbass!” she scoffed, amiably enough. And then her smile fell, and her tone was sad. “I just thought he… I thought he moved, or something.” She shrugged, staring past them, not at them. “Or ran away, you know? Richie and I, we always used to say we’d get out of Derry.” She was half-smiling now. Wistful. “We said we’d burn this town to the ground and-and-and... we’d steal a truck, drive away, and never look back. Together.”

The Losers had fallen silent. They stared forward, at the ground or at her, all looking almost guilty. They didn’t know quite how to react. She snapped out of her daze and a hot wave of shame washed over her. She laughed nervously. “Uh, anyways. Then he just… poof!” She made her hands into the shape of an explosions. “He disappeared. No call, no letter, nothing. I can’t believe he was here this whole time.” 

Mike regarded her with warm sympathy. He leaned over and patted her knee, speaking in a tone that, if it were anyone else, might have come across as a patronising. But it was him, it was Mike, and it felt right. “Do you still want to see him, Bev?” 

She thought about it for a while, and then nodded. “Yeah,” she said, and grinned, crinkling her nose, “ _Hell_ yeah. If for nothing else than to kick his ass one last time.” She glanced over at Eddie, faintly worried. “Only if it’s okay with you.” Eddie pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and nodded, biting back the urge to say anything else. He knew if he tried, the words would all tumble out of his mouth at once. _It’s okay! Of course it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be okay?_

“I was thinking we needed to add a Basket Case to our Breakfast Club,” Stan said. 

“He’s the Rebel!” Ben said a bit too loudly, and immediately blushed. The Breakfast Club was easily one of his favorite movies and he was very eager about the subject. He offered a shy, apologetic smile, and added a bit more quietly, “I mean, if he does drugs and dropped out of high school.” 

“No way, I’m The Rebel!” Beverly argued. She stuck out her red-dyed tongue and winked at him, assuring him she was only joking around. His cheeks only got redder. 

“You’re not The Princess?” Mike asked, smiling wryly, knowing all too well she wasn’t. She gasped, almost offended, and gave him a shove. 

“S-she would n-need to be able to do the luh-lipstick thing,” Bill added, then cast a dirty glare in the direction of some loud students passing by. He muttered something about ‘fuh-failing this fucking test’ and returned to memorizing formulas. 

“So that makes me the Princess.” Ben said simply, somehow keeping a straight face. They all blinked at each other, and then promptly burst out in laughter. Mike clapped him on the back and thanked him for the mental image. “Who would you be, Billy?” 

“Not the f-fucking Brain, that’s for sure,” he hissed, tossing the textbook off of his lap. Stan patted his back and he smiled sheepishly. “Suh-sorry, Ben. I really need to st-study, so at the r-risk of suh-sounding like an asshole, I don’t give a damn.” 

“Oh, that’s our shortstop!” Stan chimed in, and giggled kookily to himself. Nobody else got the joke.

* * *

When the Losers club came into his room, Richie was facing away from them, standing at the window with a cigarette burning between his fingers. He was wearing jeans, and a hospital gown tucked into it like a baggy shirt. He heard their footsteps and jumped, quickly grinding the cig into his leg and slipping what remained of it into his pocket. Then he turned, smiling widely and innocently. He exhaled smoke out of the side of his mouth as he did. 

And then he saw her, and froze. 

“ _Bonnie_?” he whispered.

“ _Clyde_!” Beverly cried through delighted laughter. She made her way past the Losers and ran into his arms, giggling all the way. He hoisted her up by her waist and spun her around, and when he set her down she planted a sweet kiss on his cheek. They held each other at arm’s length, both beside themselves.

“Where have you been?” 

She shoved him hard, still laughing. “Where have you been, asshole?”

“Oh my god,” Stan said to Bill in a low, awe-stricken voice, “There’s two of her. I feel like I’m on a really boring episode of the Twilight Zone.” Bill elbowed him, but grinned. Eddie overheard it, but couldn’t bring himself to smile. He stood there, his heart in his stomach, feeling hurt, and not knowing why. He needed to interrupt them. 

“Richie, what the hell are you wearing?” 

Richie looked past Bev, his smile growing even wider. “Oh, _this_ old thing?” he asked, speaking in the airy accent of a Southern Belle, and gave a little twirl, “It’s called a compromise. Nurse says ‘please wear the gown’, I say ‘I’d prefer to walk freely without blessing everyone with the gift of my wang’, yadda yadda, you know how it is.” 

Realization struck Eddie suddenly. Ben must be in hell right now, he thought, and a quick glance at the worried frowns of the others confirmed they were all thinking the exact same thing. Despite everything, Ben was the first to step forward. He waved cheerfully as he did so. “Eddie’s told us a lot about you.” 

Richie took Ben’s hand in his own and shook it emphatically. “All bad things, I hope!” Eddie internally thanked whatever higher powers that may be that Ben didn’t say anything along the lines of ‘actually, Eds just went on and on about how cool you are’, which would have been accurate. Fortunately, Richie was already moving on. He eyed Stan with an approving grin. “Hmm, let me guess… shirt tucked into pants, shoes shined, Jew fro ㅡ” (“Richie! Shut the fuck up!” Eddie gasped) “ㅡ You must be Stan the Man!” 

Stan glowered at him. “And you’re loud, rude, and prone to telling jokes at inappropriate times,” he said thinly, and several concerned glances were exchanged between the Losers. Just as Eddie was mourning the death of Richie’s first impression, Stan broke into a smile. “You’re Loser material for sure.” 

Richie exhaled sharply, a sort of half-laugh, half-sigh of relief. Eddie looked at him, and couldn’t help but smile along in spite of his own mixed emotions. Richie needed this, but Eddie couldn’t shake the sinking sense of dread that he’d just ruined things, irreversibly. Richie and Beverly might be a ‘thing’ now, all thanks to him. And he didn’t know why that angered him so much, he knew it shouldn’t. _He’s a friend, she’s a friend, and turns out they were friends all along. That’s a good thing._ He could just keep telling himself that until he really believed it. 

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned just as Bill leaned forward and whispered in his ear: “B-Ben left the room. I’m guh-gonna go check on him.” Bill moved to leave, but Eddie stopped him. 

“I think I should go instead,” he said simply, and made his way towards the hall.

* * *

Ben was sitting on a chair next to a fake potted tree, a ficus maybe. He was leaning forward so that his chin was resting in his palms and his elbows were, in turn, resting on his knees. He seemed relatively calm at first glance, until he blinked, and Eddie realized he was crying. 

“Are you okay?”

Ben’s head snapped up and his face immediately went a rosy red. He sniffed loudly, wiped at his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said in a voice that was so convincingly ‘okay’, it hurt Eddie to hear it. 

He sat on the seat beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Ben, I’m really sorry ㅡ”

Ben laughed and shook his head. “Don’t be! It’s so stupid.”

“Bullshit!”

Ben grinned, “Sure, or that. Whatever works.” 

Eddie gave him a knowing, mildly annoyed smile. Here Ben was, trying to make sure he didn’t worry about him. “You _know_ that’s not that I meant. It’s not stupid. At all.” Ben smiled, and it was real, and infectious. Eddie couldn’t help but smile back. “You know if you wanted, you could just make a scene. Cry a little, storm out like we’re on a Soap… It might make you feel better.” 

They looked at each other in silence, and then Ben burst into laughter. He sniffled as he did, his smile almost heartbreaking in contrast with his teary, red-rimmed eyes. “Thanks for the advice, Eddie. But I don’t want her to feel guilty.”

Eddie nodded. “Of course not, man. You would never.” 

He was quiet for a while. Eddie studied the side of his face, until Ben spoke again. “I’m not even sad that she might be with him. I mean, it _hurts_ , but… that’s not it.”

Eddie cocked his head. “It’s not?”

“Of course not!” he cried, his voice wavering. “I _love_ Beverly. She’s my friend, and I...I want her to be able to tell me anything. All of it, the ups and the downs. And if she didn’t tell me about Richie, who’s _clearly_ a big part of her life, then she probably didn’t because she thinks that I care more about how I feel about her than I care about her.” Ben’s eyes edged with tears again and he wiped at them with the back of his sleeve. “She goes through so much, Eddie, every day of her life. It breaks my heart.” His voice broke as he said this, but he was smiling even more sincerely now. “Did you see how happy she was when she saw him? She was over the moon! I wish she could be that happy all the time... even if it’s Richie making her smile and not me.” 

Eddie searched his face for some bitterness, but found none. He shook his head and laughed breathily. “Ben, you don’t get enough credit. You’re probably the best person I know.” 

Ben turned to him, taken aback, but touched. “Thanks, Eddie. Really.” 

They sat like that for a little while longer, just enjoying each other’s company. It seemed like the two of them never hung out alone. It was a nice change. Eddie spent this time mulling over what Ben had said, wondering how anyone could be that good of a person, and how it seemed to come so easily to him. He tried to picture himself walking back into that hospital room, grinning and bearing it, and just being happy that they were happy. He didn’t like the thought, and he scared himself suddenly, wondering why he even cared. Some voice in the back of his head, hungry and hollow, said he knew why, but he buried it beneath other thoughts. _He’s your friend, Eddie, don’t be stupid. Be happy. Be happy. Be happy._

_Even if it’s her making him smile like that, and not you._

When they came back into the room, Richie and Beverly were gone.


	3. Northern Downpour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie is forced to revisit the life he left behind.

“ Oh, I will surprise you sometime,  
I’ll come around, when you're down. ”  
ㅡ _Untitled_ , **Interpol**

“ I missed your skin when you were east.  
You clicked your heels and wished for me. ”  
ㅡ _Northern Downpour_ , **Panic! At The Disco**

“ Come down love.  
Berlin in the cold.  
All that fighting, all that snow. ”  
ㅡ _Berlin_ , **RY X**

* * *

It had been a little while since Eddie went after Ben. Richie didn’t quite understand what was happening between the four of them, but figured from the way Beverly was sulking, it wasn’t good. He tried to ease the tension the only way he knew how: talking. Beverly leaned against the wall, watching Richie laugh and joke with Mike, Bill, and Stan like they’d always known each other. With her arms folded and a bemused half-smile, she wondered why she’d never thought to introduce them years ago. Richie already seemed like the missing piece. It was hard to explain, but felt to all of the Losers as though Richie had always, in some small way, been there with them. 

_But he wasn’t there with you, was he?_

She exhaled loudly and strode towards the door, throwing her hands down. “I’m going for a smoke. Come with?” she said, stating rather than asking, and gestured to him. There was something sharp in the tone of her voice that scared him. Without waiting for a reply, she left the room. He exchanged a nervous look with Bill and quickly followed after her. 

“I’ll see you guys in a little bit.”

Richie liked to smoke in his room. Walking up and down several flights of stairs several times a day was more work than he was willing to put into feeding his craving. That didn’t mean the nurses would give him any trouble for leaving. He walked past the front desk and saluted, eliciting nothing but a grumble and a faint nod from the woman at the desk. Purely by chance, they missed Eddie and Ben on their way out.

It was the emotional equivalent of being dragged out by his ear. She didn’t say much the way down, but there was a familiar stiffness in her jaw, and a hardened frown that he knew too well. She was silent as they pushed out of the front doors and into the bracing mid-September air. She was silent as she withdrew her pack of cigarettes, and offered one to him. She was silent as he shook his head and took the half-finished menthol from earlier. Then she took a drag, and he could feel it, whatever she had to say, rising to the surface. It felt tense and electric. 

“Why?” That’s all she said, and as she did, she leaned against the side of the building.

Richie’s heart sank. Some small part of him had been hoping they wouldn’t have to have this talk. That he could just roll into her life like a hurricane and she’d be standing there with open arms, wondering what took him so long. He held up a hand. “Bev, I’m sorry ㅡ”

“I don’t want to hear ‘sorry’, I want to know _why_.” Her voice was icy. It stole the words from his mouth and knocked the air out of his lungs. She stared at him, hard and nearly unblinking, refusing to back down. “Why did you leave for a whole year and never call? Not even once, to tell me where the fuck you were?” 

“Beverly ㅡ”

“No, _fuck_ you!” she snapped, and regretted it instantly. She kept digging all the same. “I was scared! And I needed you, and I _missed_ you.” She counted on her fingers as she spoke. She was trembling with anger. “I called, I came by your house, I tried so hard to find an answer and you never said a damn word to me.” She shook, but didn’t cry. She didn’t want him to see her cry. “Was it something I did, or did you just get sick of me?” 

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Bee.” 

“Then _what_?” 

They locked eyes for a while. He rubbed at his shoulder, and fidgeted with his shirt, and tried so desperately to dislodge the pit in his stomach, but no dice. In the back of his mind, he heard the old saying, echoing and clawing: _Can’t go under it. Can’t go over it. Gotta go through it._ And thinking of this, he broke down into tears. Everything else poured out with them. 

“I’m so sorry, Beverly... I don’t even have a good excuse, i-it’s just this fucked up thing I do. And-and I know that it’s wrong, but I feel like I can’t stop.” His voice was hollow and strained. Tears streamed down his face as he ran his fingers through his curls. She watched him, scared, and tired, and still hurt. But mostly just scared. “I get so afraid that the people I love are going to leave me, so I… I push them away, like, like that stops them from ever getting the fucking chance. I did it to you,” he said, and laughed dryly at how stupid it sounded when he said it out loud, “and I’ll do it to him, and to them.” 

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Richie. You can’t just give up and then pretend like it’s not your fault when nothing gets better.” Her voice was still stern, but the anger was ebbing away. She was realizing for the first time just how pale and thin he looked now. He was bruised in places he never used to be. He seemed so exhausted. So she spoke again, gentler this time, and the tears that she kept inside could be heard in those words. “Richie, what happened to you?” 

He folded his arms, seeming suddenly defensive. “I thought Eddie told you already,” he said, and she watched the warm vapor of his breath intermingle with the smoke, “I got hooked on pills. Took a few too many, on accident.” 

“Eddie only told us what he thinks he knows about you. I feel like I might know you a bit better.” She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t say it, but knowing there was no real way around it, and that she wouldn’t be able to stop herself anyways. “Was it really an accident?” 

“ _Don’t_. Please don’t.” His voice was a warning whisper. 

Her eyes fluttered as she blinked away the burning in her eyes, and began to say that she was sorry, but her voice died on her lips. He stared forward, his hair blocking his face. He rested his back on the side of the building and slowly slid down. She followed suit, and they sat there together, wordlessly. She finished her cigarette first, and set her hand down near his. When he finished his, he said nothing still, but interlaced his fingers with hers. 

She broke the silence first, just like she always did. 

“Remember when we stole all that shit from the drugstore?” 

He chuckled. “We stole shit from the drugstore almost every day, Bev. You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“You know which night I’m talking about, asshole” she said, grinning, “Mr. Keene fell asleep at the desk so we went in and just grabbed everything we could carry. Chips, and candy, and cigarettes. We were laughing so loud, I have no idea how he didn’t wake up. And then we took all of it up to the hill ㅡ”

“And I said that we should run away together,” he said, and cracked a smile, “in a stolen truck.” 

She nodded. “We were gonna burn this town down, remember?” 

He snorted with laughter, burying his head in his hands for a moment. “Oh god, now I remember,” he sighed as he met her gaze again, “Still feel like some arson, Bonnie?” 

She studied his face for a few moments, thinking. And fuck, she needed another cigarette already. She shook her head. “I don’t think I do. I think… I think it was a good thing that we both stayed here, at least for now.” 

Richie blinked at her. This didn’t sound like the Bev he knew, and he was shocked and a little scared that maybe she’d changed too much in this past year. And if she had, it would be nobody’s fault but his own for not being there to change with her. “Why?” 

“Because we always used to pretend that happiness was out there,” she said, gesturing all around them. “Anywhere but in Derry. And the truth is, it’s not. It’s… you.” She side-eyed him, and quickly corrected, “You as in all of us. And you, _you-you_ , keep saying you don’t know how to change. But if we don’t change, we’ll feel just as empty out there as we do here.” 

Richie slumped back. “Well, _that’s_ depressing.” 

“I know,” she said softly, and squeezed his hand, “but we’ll be together.” Then she stood abruptly, dropping her second cigarette and grinding it under her boot. Bev offered him a hand, and as she was helping him up, she seemed sad again. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, and caught his eyes in her own. “If you can’t stay for me, that’s okay. I’m a big girl. I can handle it. I… I love you, Richie. But ㅡ”

“But?”

“But if you _ever_ hurt him, I’ll kick your ass.”

“Bev…”

She held up a finger, cutting him off, and then pointed to the building. There was a warning look in her eye. “Eddie is up there and he thinks the _fucking_ world of you. Don’t screw that up.” As she said this, they both seemed to know that he would anyways. They held one more lingering look between them, and then she left.

* * *

“What are you doing?” 

They were alone again. It was dark out now, and the others had left one by one over the course of the past few hours. Eddie’s eyes flickered from Richie, to the open backpack on his bed, and back to Richie. He had changed into a red sweater, leaving his gown folding neatly on the bed, and was now stuffing the rest of his things haphazardly into what little space remained. 

“C’mon, Eds, for one million dollars, which is the answer?” he began in his best game show host voice, which was admittedly pretty good, “Is it a) Richie’s been kicked out of the hospital or b) Richie was suddenly overcome with an overwhelming urge to clean his room.” Eddie’s face fell. Richie didn’t see, since he was too busy trying to cram the Marigolds, vase and all, in with everything else. 

“They kicked you out?” 

Richie nodded, as nonchalant as ever. “Yeah, but it’s not a big deal. It’s not like they can keep me here forever with no identity and no money.” He stood up straight, zipped his pack, and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: Fuck American healthcare.” 

“Preach, Tozier,” Eddie sighed, folding his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. 

Richie froze, his smile vanishing. “You know my last name?” 

Eddie stared at him for a moment, completely perplexed, and then clapped a hand to his mouth. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper. “ _Shit_ , I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.” Richie was quiet for a few moments longer, seeming confused. 

“You’re... not going to tell them?”

Eddie balked. “Christ, Richie, of course not. Why would I?” 

“I… I don’t know! Because it’s your job? I thought, maybe, I don’t know ㅡ” He thought Eddie had just been taking advantage of him, but then he saw Eddie’s earnest smile, still chewing his lip in that adorable, nervous way of his, and felt completely stupid for ever even thinking that. He released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and shut his eyes and smiled briefly, his brows knit together. “You scared the shit out of me, Eds.” 

Eddie grimaced. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Call you what?”

“Eds!”

Richie tsked. “Now that you’ve pointed it out, it’s a thing, and I have to forever call you that. I don’t write the rules, Eds, I just follow them.” If looks could kill, Richie would be long dead. He threw his head back in laughter and ruffled Eddie’s hair. “Adorable.” 

“You’re on thin ice mister,” Eddie scoffed, making a point to avoid Richie’s gaze as they exited the room. His friends liked to tousle his hair and call him cute, but with Richie it always made his heart flutter and his cheeks burn. He struggled to keep the smile off of his face, until he reached into his pocket, and felt a jolt of panic. “Shit, I think I lost my keys.” 

Richie stopped beside him, seeming concerned. “Keys as in hospital keys?”

Eddie was frantically patting himself down. “Yeah, and I’m in deep shit if I don’t find them.”

“Hang on. I think I saw them,” Richie breathed and disappeared back into his room. A few moments later, he returned dangling several silver keys by their chain. “Ah say, ah say, are you lookin’ for _these_ , sah?” And then added in his normal voice, “You left them on my bed, dipshit.” 

They set off down the hallway again, and down several flights of stairs. Eddie stopped next to the phone at the front desk, and gestured for Richie to keep going. “I gotta call my mom real quick.” 

Richie nodded and went ahead. A few minutes later, Eddie joined him. 

“Is she pissed?” he asked, a little apologetically.

Eddie shook his head. “Not as much as she could be,” he said, and started walking, “I just told her that I’m staying late at Stan’s house to work on a school project.” 

Richie half-smiled. “I thought your mom hated all of your friends.”

“Oh, she _does_ ,” Eddie insisted, and laughed, “but she hates Stan marginally less because he’s clean and doesn’t talk back.” 

“Why’d you lie to her?”

"I don't know." Eddie shrugged and smiled. “I had a feeling you wouldn’t want to be alone tonight. I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

“This is me. Casa del Tozier.”

Richie stopped walking, and Eddie bumped into his side as he turned. They were across the street from a dingy bungalow. He gestured to it grandly, like he was proud, and then kissed his fists and flipped it the bird. He laughed, but Eddie could see how his breath hitched, a momentary delay in the steady swirls of steam that trailed from his lips. He nudged Richie, and gave him a reassuring look.

“Are you ready?”

Richie pushed up his glasses and smiled widely. “Fuck no.” He took a step towards the house, but Eddie had reached out and taken his trembling, frozen hand in his own. He held on tightly, urging Richie to stay. 

“Then let’s walk for a while longer,” he said simply, and tilted his head to the left, “Just around the block.” 

Richie’s lips tugged into a small smile. “Thanks.” Eddie just shook his head (don’t mention it), and started walking. His hand didn’t leave Richie’s until a few houses down, when he said something. 

“Do you want to hear a story?”

Eddie looked at him, raising an eyebrow. “Only if the punchline isn’t you banging my mom.” 

Richie sucked air sharply through his teeth. “Oof, no promises, Eds. But I’ll try.” Eddie rolled his eyes and shoved him, and Richie snorted with laughter as he wobbled off the sidewalk and then hopped back on beside him, easily keeping stride with Eddie’s much shorter legs. “Okay, okay. So there’s this kid. High school kid, kinda dorky, only has one friend in the whole world.” Richie was still grinning madly, but Eddie’s own smile had vanished. This was starting to sound familiar, and the cheeriness in his voice felt… misplaced. “His home life ain’t so hot, and high school is, well, high school. And one day, uh, things get bad enough that he gives up, and decides to run away.” 

“Richie…” 

He pressed on anyways. “But he can’t just drop off the map. No way. He has to go out with a bang. So as one last ‘fuck you’ to his school, he sneaks into the office of the school newspaper, and prints out hundreds of issues headlined ‘Student Killed In Tragic Accident’.” He held his hands out in front of him, wide and squared, like he was framing for a painting. “It has a picture of him and a fudged article, the works. And of course he doesn’t think anyone will buy that bullshit, but… they eat it up. He doesn’t show up to school the next day and suddenly there’s at least thirty different rumors saying it was a car crash, or an alien abduction, or that he was drowned in the canal’.” 

Eddie’s eyes widened in recognition. 

“Running away doesn’t pan out. He knew it wouldn’t. He keeps thinking about that one friend of his, and how he can’t just leave her ㅡ” His words caught in his throat. “ㅡ _them_. He shows up to school, keeps his head low because, you know, everybody thinks he’s fucking dead, and… they’re all crying. Girls he never even met are mourning him, saying they knew him so well. There’s flowers and cards taped to his locker, the whole shebang.” His eyes were misty, but he was still beaming, “Everybody loves him a whole lot more now that they’ll never have to tell him. So he stays gone."

"..."

"Maybe he was always better off dead.” 

They were back at the house. Richie stopped in his tracks, and Eddie, who was deep in thought, bumped into him again. He’d always wondered how, in a relatively small town like Derry, a teenager could overdose several times, show up at the same hospital, provide his first name, and never be properly identified. It all made sense now: Richie Tozier was dead to the world. And speaking of Richie, he was walking away, his hands buried deep in his pockets.

“Richie,” Eddie called, running after him, “Hey, _hey_. Look at me.” He reached up and gently guided Richie’s chin so their eyes met. “You don’t have to go in there. I can sneak you into my house, or maybe we can call Bill, or ㅡ” 

“Eddie,” Richie stopped him, and laughed, “You have no idea how badly I want that, but, I-I… I can’t. I have to face this tonight.” He took a few steps toward his house, walking backwards. “There’s no place like home.” 

“You know, that story you told me was pretty sad,” Eddie called after him. Richie stopped in the middle of the road, and turned. “But I’m glad it had a happy ending.” 

Richie raised an eyebrow. “There wasn’t one.” 

“That’s because it’s not over yet,” he said simply, and smiled, “Good night, Rich.” 

With that, he started to walk away. Richie stood there, dumbfounded, and watched him go. A small, sweet smile slowly took over him, his heart feeling all faint and fluttery in his stomach. He knew he’d never forget the way Eddie had looked in that moment. All glistening, hopeful eyes and frost-bitten cheeks. 

_Eddie is up there and he thinks the fucking world of you._

“Don’t screw that up,” he said aloud, but to no one but himself. 

Richie sat on his driveway, in the spot where his father’s truck would be if he were ever home, and smoked for a while. He found the spare key under the doormat. He was almost surprised that it still worked. He’d only been gone for a few days, but it felt like much, much longer. The house was dark, except for a blue, flickering glow. Cartoon voices and zany sound effects echoed through the empty hallway, sounding distant and otherworldly. “Mom?” 

She had passed out on the couch watching Looney Tunes. He waded through the maze of empty bottles and discarded beer cans to crouch beside her. He lightly tapped her cheek. “Mom, I’m home,” Richie whispered and waited hopefully for a response that never came. He sat back on his haunches and watched her for a while. She looked so peaceful. He could pretend she was just asleep.

_If we don’t change, we’ll feel just as empty out there as we do here._

He turned off the television, and as he did, his mother moaned something in her sleep. She reached out, and he returned to her side and tucked the corners of her blanket around her. She fell silent again. He planted a kiss on her cheek, and went to bed. 

He dreamed that he came home again, but the house wasn’t empty, and Eddie was with him. They were holding hands. His parents’ voices came in worried, hushed whispers, echoing from the kitchen. He stepped forward, looking ashamed, and his parents nearly cried with relief at the sight. He was rosy-cheeked and his nose was running, but he was home in one piece. His mother rushed towards him and hugged him tightly.

“Where have you been, sweetheart?” she sobbed.

“I’m sorry, momma, I got lost looking for happiness.” 

“Oh, sweet pea,” she half-laughed, half-cried into his shoulder, and then withdrew and held his face in her hands, “happiness isn’t out there.” Her voice wavered as she spoke. He kept expecting her to say something else, some cheerful second half to the proverb, but she never did. 

When he woke up the next morning, the room was yellow for a little while. The feeling was fleeting, and he chased it desperately with a handful of demerol, then chased that with a burning swig of his mother’s brandy.


	4. The Traces of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie invites the Losers to a house party.

“And I'll be anything you ask and more. ”  
ㅡ _1901_ , **Phoenix**

“ Now it's like the world owes you,  
walking around like everybody should know you.  
I wanna be like we used to  
but now you're worried 'cause that means we'd lose you. ”  
ㅡ _Disciples_ , **Tame Impala**

“ I just keep running and running and running around.  
I never thought that it would hit this hard.  
The feeling is different instead when you wake on the ground. ”  
ㅡ _Hit This Hard_ , **Post Malone**

“ She don't like  
that kind of behaviour  
so, throw down your guns.  
Don't be so reckless. ”  
ㅡ _Reckless_ , **Australian Crawl**

* * *

“Ay batta, batta, batta!” Richie hollered at the top of his lungs, grinning goofily all the while, “Sa-wing, batta!” He was stomping around third base, kicking up dust like a little kid. 

It was early October now, and autumn had somehow seeped into everything right under their noses. The weather wasn’t ideal, but the Losers had decided to play a friendly game of baseball all the same. Mike was pitching. Bill, Stan, and Eddie were on the batting team. Beverly manned first base, Ben second, Richie third. Eddie had been first to bat, and he had hit harder and ran faster than Richie ever could have expected. Beside himself with excitement, Richie had hoisted Eds up and piggybacked him around shouting that Babe Ruth could ‘suck it’ because Eddie was the new King of Swing. 

“You’re not even batting, Richie! I am!” Stan huffed, yelling at him from across the field. 

Richie threw his hands up. “Yeah, that’s the point! I’m sending you good vibes.” 

“Isn’t the rest of that quote ‘he can’t hit, he can’t hit, he can’t hit’?” Ben asked. 

Richie’s jaw dropped. He smacked his own forehead in a ‘no doy’ gesture. “Oh my god, that makes so much sense,” he mused, “I always thought he was saying Kennedy!” 

“Just pitch already!” Bev jeered, then ran her fingers over the brim of her baseball cap and grinned. Knowing her dad would be angry if he found dirt on her clothes (because dirt meant playing around with dirty boys), Bill had let her borrow his old baseball uniform. It was a bit tight in places, but otherwise fit like a glove. Ben had seemed a bit distracted that game. 

Mike cleared his throat as a warning, then reeled back and struck, sending Stan a clean but powerful throw. Stan hit it with ease, and sent it soaring. They all watched it go in dumbfounded awe.

“Hol-ee _shit_!” Richie screamed, “I’ll be damned. He can hit.” 

Stan tossed him a smug grin, then dropped the bat and tore off. 

It had leaned right, so Beverly pursued the ball, making good time. She found it quickly and started running back, then tossed it to Ben who, in turn, passed it to Richie. Eddie didn’t want to chance his home run getting cocky, so he planted at third before Richie could tag him. When the dust cleared, Richie was wearing a familiar shit-eating grin.

“Hey guys, Eds finally made it to third base!”

Eddie shoved him and rolled his eyes, but grinned despite himself.

“B-beep beep, Richie,” Bill said as he picked up the bat. Richie obediently closed his mouth, but couldn’t keep the grin off of his face. It wasn’t even because of his joke, as chuckalicious as it was. He was just… content. He liked it when they said ‘beep beep’. Even if it was their gentle way of telling him to can it, there was something about it that made him feel at home. 

“That reminds me,” Richie began, his face lighting up, “Do you guys want to go to a house party with me? It’s out of town so kind of a bitch to get to, but it’ll be a blast.” 

“On a scale of one to ten, how likely is it that you’re just asking because you need a ride?” Mike asked, fixing Richie with an affectionate glare. 

“Oh, definitely eleven.”

* * *

“Um,” Ben began tentatively. They had just united about a block down from the party, and were now following the sounds of muffled shouting and pulsing bass. “I don’t mean this in a bad way, Richie, but, uh, I thought people thought you were dead…” 

“Derry kids do,” Richie replied, his smile persisting, “but these guys aren’t Derry kids. They’re college students from the outskirts. Nobody here gives a shit.” He was wearing a pair of lightly ripped jeans and a half-tucked blue Hawaiian shirt. When the others’ eyes were elsewhere, he reached into the shirt pocket and discreetly removed a foil packet of pills. He took one, and quickly hid it again just as everyone began to process what he’d said. 

“They’re _what_?” Stan hissed, and if he had been taking a sip of a drink, he may just have done a spit take. He stared at Richie, wide-eyed, and smacked his shoulder. “You couldn’t have mentioned that it’s a _college_ party all seven of us _high school students_ are crashing?” 

Bev snorted with laughter. “Yeah, and we’re not even ‘cool’ high school students.” 

Richie just shrugged and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Chill, we’re not crashing. They know me.” As if to emphasize his point, Richie opened the front door and held it open for them without even knocking. One by one, they shuffled in awkwardly, except for Richie, who practically bounded in. He drew back his arm and swung in a chopping motion, speaking in a growling voice, “Heeeere’s Richie!”

Several college students stopped mid-sentence and fixed them with a blank gaze. The Losers’ hearts dropped in unison, and Eddie was about to tug on Richie’s shirt and advocate that they leave when all at once, the crowd raised their hands and roared with approval. “King Trashmouth!”

A tall guy with well-coiffed hair snuck up on Richie and noogied him, “This scamp is back, eh? Love this kid!” A girl passed hair-guy (as Eddie had so affectionately named him) a beer, who passed it on to Richie, with a flourishing bow. “My liege.”

Richie took a swig and made a sour face. “This tastes like shit,” he gagged, and then grinned devilishly, “I’ll need another to wash it down.” Almost without thinking, he reached into his pocket again. Another pill, down the hatch. 

The guy put his arm around Richie and steered him away from the group with nothing but a half-assed salute in their direction. Eddie caught a fragment of his sentence as he was leaving: “... nah man, demerol’s for pussies. You’ve got to try this other shit…”

Eddie watched him disappear into the crowd, feeling a knot of dread in his chest.

* * *

When the Losers had first joined the party, it was like some primal response had kept them all huddled together. Bev stayed closed to Ben, knowing this was his first real ‘party’ and that he always got really self-conscious that he was ‘taking up too much space’. Bill hovered near Stan, and Mike guarded Eddie like a protective older brother. This went on for about half an hour until, little by little, they’d all worked up the confidence to separate and drift aimlessly and alone through the sea of people.

Bill and Beverly had a couple of beers each but didn’t want to go overboard in an unfamiliar setting. Mike had one, Stan and Bill stuck with soda, and only god knew what Richie was up to. Eddie had decided to just have punch. Several cups of punch. Bill saw him refilling his solo cup for the nth time and made his way over, seeming concerned. He had someone’s necktie around his forehead like a warrior’s bandana, and for some reason that sent Eddie into a fit of uncontrollable giggles. Bill put a hand on his shoulder. “Woah. Eddie, suh-slow down.”

Eddie fought to stop laughing. “Why? Iss’ just punch.”

Bill gestured to a trampled-looking paper sign that had been knocked off the table and onto the floor. “Yeah, alcoholic p-puh-punch.” 

“Whaaaaaa?” Eddie’s said airily, still giggling as he inspected his cup. “Oopsie! Billy, I had so much,” he babbled, and took another sip. Bill practically knocked the drink out of his hand.

“Eddie! S-stop!”

“Iss’ too late for me, Billiam… save yourself,” he insisted, making grabby hands at the cup, and sent himself into another bout of hysterical laughter. As quickly as he had started, he interrupted himself with a gasp. His eyes were glistening. “I should talk to Richie.”

Stan, who was passing by, stopped and shook his head emphatically. “ _No_. No, you should not do that.”

Eddie was already walking away, muttering and flapping his hand dismissively at them. “I’m ‘onna… I’mma talk to him…”

“We are doing a terrible job babysitting him,” Stan said as he exchanged a pained look with Bill.

“Richie, Richinald, Rich, Richter…” Eddie repeated under his breath in a sing-song voice. He was on the second floor now, having already searched the basement and first floor for any signs of the lovable rascal. 

As if in reply, a familiar voice, coupled with a loud thing, rang through the hallway. “ _Fuck_!” Eddie followed the sound to the master bedroom, where Richie was lying on his back, clutching the top of his head in pain. He cracked one eye open and smiled at Eddie. “This ceiling is too low for bed-jumping,” he grumbled. Richie rose to his feet and made for the door, but Eddie was already in the middle of shutting it. When he whirled around to face him again, his heart skipped a beat. Richie had stopped himself just a few inches short of Eddie’s face. They blinked at each other, wide-eyed and tense. 

“I… wanted to talk to you,” Eddie said in a voice barely above a whisper, never breaking eye contact. 

Richie laughed nervously, his eyes flickering over Eddie’s features, noting how flushed he looked. “What’s this about, Eds?”

Eddie stared at him, eyes lingering briefly on Richie’s lips. For a moment, he felt like he could tell him everything. Anything. But the words failed him. “I, uh…” he began, then closed his mouth. He felt a bit woozy all of a sudden, and gently pushed past Richie to stumble over to the bed. He sat down, hard, and then giggled as the whole thing bounced beneath his weight. Amused realization dawned on Richie’s face.

“Oh my god,” he said, “you’re _drunk_ , aren’t you?” 

“No’m not!” Eddie whined back, and Richie only grinned wider. 

“Holy shit. This is amazing. And _so_ unlike you,” he teased. Eddie scowled at him and folded his arms, heat still rising in his cheeks. Richie sat down on the bed beside him. “What’s on your mind, Eddie spaghetti?” 

Eddie half-smiled at the nickname, but had begun wringing his hands in his lap. “Um, are you…” he began weakly, and then met Richie’s eyes, “are you doing the right thing being here, y’think?” He punctuated his concern with a wince and a tiny hiccup. 

Richie blinked at him, and then scoffed. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” His hands grazing instinctively over his shirt pocket. With faintly trembling hands, he withdrew the packet. Eddie watched him place the third pill on his tongue. He wasn’t even hiding it now, and Eddie didn’t want to push him on it. Not yet. 

“I dinn’t mean it that way, Richie,” Eddie said, trying and failing not to slur his words, “I just... iss’ cool that you have friends and that people like you so much here, but I-I… I feel like you’re just doing stuff to impress them, y’know?” 

“They’re not my friends,” Richie said stonily. 

“What d’you mean?” he asked, his voice high with disbelief. “They love you, Richie!”

He laughed coldly, nodded. “Yeah, they love me. But they don’t... _like me_.” He spoke lowly, watching his own hands fidget in his lap. “They don’t know me.” 

“If you really think that, then why are you doing this t’yourself?” 

Richie looked at him, and thought about it for a second. It was a good question. He struggled to answer it. He spoke with little, defeated chuckles. He was laughing at himself, and how stupid he felt. “Because they… they call me king!” he said, smiling sadly, “a-and they, they hoist me up on their shoulders, and treat me like a little brother. It’s… nice.” He shrugged, feeling defeated. “For a few hours I can pretend like I’m the kind of guy who belongs somewhere.”

“You _do_. You belong with me. With us.” Eddie said, and his words hung heavy in the silence between them. He reached for Richie’s shoulder, and at first he winced and shrank away from the touch, but slowly leaned into it. “I know you, Richie,” he said, “and tha’ss why I’m worried ‘bout you.” Eddie smiled kindly, albeit drunkenly, and Richie’s heart caught in his throat.

(You know what you did, Richie. What you’re doing to him.)

“You don’t.”

Eddie’s smile vanished. “What?”

“You don’t know me!” he said sharply, and stood. “And that’s why you like me.” Eddie watched him, his face pale, scared, confusedly trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. Richie knew it was nothing, but couldn’t stop the words that he was spitting out. “If you’re looking for good, clean fun, I’m not the friend for you. I thought I made that clear.”

“Richie, I’m just scared ㅡ” 

“Who asked you to be?” he said venomously, and Eddie fell silent. Richie’s heart was pounding in his chest and a dull ache had begun to spread through his mind. Eddie’s eyes began to fill with tears. The anger left Richie immediately, and he was left to stand there at the door, stewing in the aftermath of the shitty things he always found a way to say. His face softened and he wanted so badly to reach out, and hug him, and apologize, but he couldn’t bring himself to. The damage was done. “I know how to take care of myself,” he said finally, and left Eddie alone just as the first tears began to stream down his face.

* * *

Richie staggered into the bathroom. He stopped at the door and bit down on his lip until it drew blood, hoping that would be enough to stave off the lightheadedness. A fog was filling his brain, numbing his thoughts. With some effort, he fumbled the door shut behind him and locked it. The peeling floral wallpaper seemed to be running, dripping like wax around him, but he ignored it. He clenched his eyes shut and braced himself against the counter, holding his head in his hands. He cursed under his breath and fumbled for the tap, playing around with the temperature for a moment before splashing his face. It woke him up just enough. He blinked repeatedly and slid his glasses back onto his drenched, pale face. 

He stared at himself in the mirror for a long time, and didn’t like what he saw. He was pale, and thin, and lanky. His lip was split and scabbed. His eyes were dull. He had too many stupid fucking freckles. 

“Fuck you,” he said to his reflection. There was a moment of silence where he half expected the other Richie to say something back. He knew he couldn’t fight off the effects of the pills much longer. Might as well make it more interesting. The mirror opened into a medicine cabinet, and he searched it desperately, fingers tracing over faded labels. Several prescriptions, a few mild painkillers, but nothing fun. He sighed loudly, and as he was easing the cabinet closed again, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the mirror. It was only for a split second, but he could have sworn that in the corner of the bathroom, there was a clown. 

“Jesus christ,” he choked, and whirled around. His heart pounded in his chest. There was nothing. He was alone, completely alone. He licked his lips, his mouth feeling suddenly dry, and stared at the space where it’d been. Not only was he alone, but he was alone in the bathroom in the middle of a party, hopped up on whatever he’d been handed.This is stupid. Don’t be stupid, Richie. He chuckled shakily as he turned back to the cabinet mirror.

His heart dropped into his stomach. The face staring blankly back at him wasn’t his own. 

It was Stan, or at least some sickly, twisted version of him. His flesh was corpse-colored, cold blues and ashy greys, with a deep, bruised purple under his eyes. His lips were pale and cracked, and there were leaves tangled in the curls of his disheveled hair. Richie felt sick. The worst thing... the worst thing was his eyes, or his lack thereof. They were pure black and oozing tears of oil down his cheeks.

A strangled cry escaped Richie’s throat. He was paralyzed, watching in horror as Stan’s scabbed lips parted and that thing croaked: “Don’t tell him.” His voice sounded like locust wings. 

Some dim part of Richie, so far back in his mind that he could barely hear it, knew that he was starting to hallucinate, but that thought never had the chance to make sense before he was asking Stanley what he meant, almost defensively. 

Stan pulled a long, sad face as more droplets of black liquid oozed from his eyes. “We can’t tell them, they’ll hate us.” 

Horrified, Richie scrambled away from the mirror until his back collided with something solid. He spun around again, half expecting the clown. But it wasn’t that. It was her. It was Beverly, and she was wearing that old flowery dress she always used to wear. She loved that dress so much. It was caked with dirt and oil now, tattered at the edges. Antlers sprouted out of her fiery red hair. He realized with a dulled dread that she was floating a few inches off the ground, her bare feet dangling above the tile. There were dark bruises around her throat. They were in the shape of a hand. 

Richie felt tears welling in his eyes. He reached out to touch her, but hesitated. “Beverly, what did he do to you?” He already knew the answer, even as he asked.

She looked at him sadly, her eyes the only bright, real thing about her. “The same thing he always does. He hurt me, Richie,” she whimpered, and he shivered as she reached out and stroked his cheek with icy fingers, “and you weren’t there to stop him.” 

He swallowed hard, his lips trembling. His voice came out in a choked sob. “I’m _so_ sorry, Bonnie.” 

She laughed sweetly, a laugh that made the whole room feel warm. At least for a little while. Still, there was something sinister in her smile. She pulled out a cigarette and placed it between her ruby red lips. When she lit it, the sound of burning chemicals was loud and wet, like maggots squirming in his ears. The smoke billowed from her lips as she spoke. 

“You said it was you and me, Clyde. You said we’d get out of this town together, but you left.” There was nothing vindictive in her tone. She was hollow. She was a ghost. Richie had backed up against the shower curtains now, his hand clapped over his mouth. “Now look at me. Look at yourself. We’re rotting from the inside out.” Cinders were filling the air like clouds of spores. With every drag of her cigarette, the edges of her seemed to burn too. Her dress was singed and curling in on itself like smoldering paper. 

With trembling hands, he opened the curtain behind him, not knowing where else to go. Two voices, one in each ear, stopped him. 

“We try so hard,” Mike’s voice echoed in his left ear, sounding distant. 

“But all you do is,” Ben continued with a similar vacant tone. 

Richie’s skin crawled. He felt suddenly nauseous but fought back the urge to vomit. His eyes fluttered shut briefly, and he prayed that when he opened them again, this would all be gone. When he did, Bill and Beverly were standing in front of him, their hands intertwined. 

“All you do is fuh-fuck up.” 

The smell of bourbon, sharp and strong, filled Richie’s nose. He winced and blinked away tears. When the blurriness in his eyes had cleared, the ghosts had changed. They were his parents, and his mother was crying. 

“I used to be… beautiful… Richie,” his mother slurred, speaking slowly and weakly. 

As he spoke, his voice broke with emotion. “You still are, momma.” 

“ _Richie…_ ” (a faint, familiar voice)

“No. Not after I had you. You… you ruined me,” she said, tears streaming down her cheeks, her already smeared mascara running further. The creases in her face seemed to grow deeper. “Look at me. Look what you did.” 

“No son of mine is gonna be some freeloading fuck up,” his father growled beside her, and folded his arms sternly, “you can’t even kill yourself right.” He gave a cruel laugh. 

“ _Richie_ …” (she’s calling to you)

Richie’s hands tightened into fists and he grinned despite the weight in his chest. “Gee,” he replied, bitterly cheerful, “I’ll try harder next time, dad.” 

Ash spread and drifted through the air. It filled his lungs. He coughed and gagged, fighting against the thick black smoke that pooled around him. His parents were peeling away just like Bev’s ghost, and the wallpaper. Everything crumbled around him. And then there was nothing but

(a memory) 

“Richie!” 

His head jerked up, his heart heavy and racing, feeling like he’d been falling through a dream. His consciousness had lapsed, and he somehow felt like he had woken up and fallen into an even deeper sleep all at once. There was a fuzziness around the edges of this place. His head was still spinning, but even in his dazed state he could tell from the wild, unkempt grasses and the stunning view exactly where he was. 

The Hill. Saturday, October 5th, 1991. Two years ago, before the Big Bad, and the lies, and the pills. He was back in that night.

Her voice, an angel’s, came through to him. “Are you falling asleep on me, jackass? It’s like barely past midnight.” Beverly was beside him, eyes glistening. She gave him a confused grin, and shook his shoulder. “Do you need me to take you home, kiddo?” 

Richie shook his head, shivering. Autumn had seeped into everything like it always did. It was cold, and he was too cool to wear a jacket. “No, I… sorry, I just spaced out.” 

Bev cocked an eyebrow and propped her chin up on her hand. “Oh yeah? Deep in thought, are we?” She reached beside her and pulled some plain potato chips from their pile of stolen loot (Eat a bag of dicks, Mr. Keene). She offered it to him, but he shook his head. He still felt queasy, though the reason why was becoming more and more distant in his mind. All he cared about was right then. That moment. That stupid, perfect night. He could stay there forever. He wanted to. “What’s on your mind, Clyde?” 

Richie smiled faintly, enjoying the sweet familiarity of the nickname. He shrugged and turned his gaze back to the town. From this hill, you could practically see all of Derry. It was a pain in the ass to get all the way up there, but it was well worth it. He liked the way the cars seemed like tiny little ants, or how the lights in the houses always looked so warm and inviting at night. 

He opened his mouth, wanting to tell her how sorry he was for leaving her. He wanted to say that if he could do it all again, he would have fixed everything. He wanted to tell her that he wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t hurt Eddie. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t say it. This was 

(a memory)

Instead, he said the same words he had said to her on that night two years ago, when everything was still pretty shitty but just that little bit simpler. “I fucking hate this place.” 

She laughed dryly, throwing back her head. “God, yeah.” 

He turned to her, and studied her for a moment. She looked over at him and gave him another puzzled smile. He took her hand in his. Her fingers were cold “You and me, Bev. We’ll get out of this shithole. We’ll run away.”

She laughed and rolled her eyes. “Richie…”

“I’m serious!” he insisted, and spoke confidently, “I’m gonna steal my dad’s stupid prized truck and we’re gonna burn this town to the ground and never look back. Together.” 

She smiled softly. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

Everything was fuzzy again, peeling away, and before he could know to stop himself his consciousness had faded. Something was different when he came to, and it didn’t feel right. Cinders floated past him. Beverly was gone. It was Eddie beside him on the hill, looking serene. Richie thought to himself that it was damn pretty sight. 

Eddie noticed his stare and met his eyes with a small smile. He spoke in a soothing voice, “Don’t worry, Richie, I have something that’ll fix you.” (In unison, Richie heard Beverly’s voice in his ear, whispering ‘the right stuff to fix you up’).

Richie watched Eddie with wide eyes as he sidled closer and shifted onto his hands and knees. His stomach twisted and his heart seemed to stop, because Eddie had begun to lean in, keeping his eyes open and locked on his. The distance between them was closing slowly, but his panic was subsiding. He tilted his head, ready to meet Eddie’s, ready to feel a little less broken. Richie squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel Eddie’s breath, sweet and hot, on his lips. They were inches apart. 

Instead, Eddie raised a finger to Richie’s lip, his own still lingering tantalizingly close. Richie’s eyes fluttered open and he blinked at Eddie. He looked crestfallen and sadly sleepy, like he was waking up from a good dream. Eddie’s finger gently parted Richie’s lips and opened his mouth. He placed something on Richie’s tongue. Richie closed his mouth around it and realized it was a pill. He swallowed it eagerly and leaned in again, but Eddie was no longer there. 

He was alone on The Hill, Saturday, October 5th, 1991. In his fondest memory, he was alone.

* * *

After Richie had left the bedroom, Eddie sat on the end of the bed for a while. He stared at the wall, listening to the muffled singing, and laughing, and screaming beneath him. He tried to get a hold of himself. If he could just stop the tears, he could make it through tonight. A knock came at the door. He wiped his eyes and told them to come in. After a few moments, Ben opened the door and poked his head in. 

“Hey, I ㅡ uh. Oh.” He stopped mid-sentence and surveyed the room with one sweeping glance. Then he added, sounding slightly concerned, “I thought Richie was with you.” 

Eddie paled. “I thought he was with _you _.”__

____

__

Ben blinked at him, and then ducked out of the room. When he returned, he was with Mike, asking him if he’d seen Richie. Mike shook his head, and without missing a beat followed with, “Come on, I’ll help you look for him. It’s a pretty big house, I’m sure he’s fine.” The three of them waded single-file through the sea of drunken college students. They scanned the rest of the second floor, then the main floor, and finally ventured into the basement. There was a light on in the bathroom. Mike tilted his head towards the door and Eddie knocked. 

“Richie?” he called, trying to steady the shake in his voice. He waited for a few seconds, then pressed his ear to the door. His blood ran cold. He could hear the sound of a muffled crack and a thud. Even in his state, Eddie knew what had happened. He began to pound on the door, feeling his throat begin to seize. “Richie, open the door! Richie, can you hear me?” His words were desperate and choked, and his breath rattled as he spoke. He slammed his fist against the door, his other hand closing around his neck as he coughed. 

Ben’s hand flew to his mouth. He took a step backward. “Do you want me to call 911?” 

“No!” Eddie yelled, catching them both off guard. His breathing was becoming more and more labored. “No, I don’t… I don’t _know_. He can’t go back there. If he gets caught, his parents’ll freak and-and-and that’ll just make everything worse, and ㅡ” 

Mike took Eddie by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Eddie, try to breathe.” Eddie, tears forming fresh in his eyes, nodded urgently. Mike nudged him out of the way and stood in front of the door, his shoulders squared, summoning all the strength he had. He started to kick. It took only a few solid blows to the center of the door before it swung open, shards of splintered wood tearing with it. 

Richie lay limply on the floor, one arm splayed out at his side and the other resting on his stomach. His nose was bleeding, flowing down his pallid cheek. His glasses were on the floor beside him, shattered. Eddie sank to his knees, his hands desperately running over Richie’s chest and then up to his face. He shook Richie’s shoulder, all the while repeating his name. He was trembling as he put his ear to Richie’s mouth. 

“Guys,” he said weakly, “he’s not fucking breathing.” He tried desperately to clear his thoughts, searching for some coherent solution in the drunken numbness of his brain. He knew it wasn’t the right thing, but all he could think to do was part Richie’s lips and jam his fingers down his throat, hoping to god he had a gag reflex. In some distant dream, Richie felt that touch, and tasted a pill on his tongue. 

They waited for a painfully long moment, until Richie’s entire body heaved violently. He jolted upright and vomited to the side. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat, fresh blood flowed steadily from his nose, and his eyes teared from the taste of bile. He gasped loudly, his breathing harsh and hollow. He looked around at Ben, who was standing at the door looking a ghostly shade of white, at Mike, who was smiling calmly at him, and at Eddie, who was holding him close and smiling so widely through his tears that he was awake, and okay. 

Richie burst into sobs. “I’m _so_ sorry, Eddie, I didn’t mean to. I-I didn’t mean to.” 

Eddie held Richie’s head to his chest and stroked his hair, shushing him and rocking him. He whispered over and over, “I know, I know. It’s okay. You’re safe.” 

* * *

“Fucking high schoolers are so annoying,” hair-guy muttered under his breath in between an unintelligible string of curses, “You little shits cost me my damage deposit with that stunt, you know that?” He ushered them out of his house roughly, basically shoving them onto the front lawn. He slammed the front door without another word. The Losers all winced in unison and exchanged a round of guilty, half-humorous looks. 

“ _That_ went well,” Stan finally said, and they all laughed. 

“My first ever house party and we get kicked out for property damage because my friend almost died,” Ben remarked wistfully. 

“So, all in all, a successful party,” Beverly said, and winked. 

They all stood on the front lawn, littered with autumn leaves and glazed with frost. They stood there, side by side, and took in all the lights and the silhouettes and the laughter coming from inside. Ben and Beverly huddled close beside each other on the far left. She yawned and leaned into him, her head resting on his shoulder. He looked at her, eyes full of surprise and wonder, and then looked down at the ground with a secret smile. It was the smile of someone who was completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love. Mike stood between Eddie and Bev, blushing, wringing his hands, and apologizing repeatedly for breaking that poor guy’s door. Eddie didn’t know how else to thank Mike except by giving him a long, squeezy hug, and drunkenly babbling about how much he loved him. Mike laughed and returned the hug, then ruffled Eddie’s hair. Beside him was Richie, who was still just barely conscious, and leaning heavily against Big Bill, who had wrapped an arm around him for support. Stan stood close by on Bill’s other side, his hand on the elbow of Bill’s plaid shirt, just resting there. 

This was nice. This was simple. 

Richie raised his hand weakly and brushed Eddie’s arm. He muttered his name, wanting so badly to tell him something, something he’d been keeping a secret, but when Eddie looked over at him, his smile wide and his eyes glistening with anticipation, Richie couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

“Thanks,” he said instead. 

Eddie beamed at him, half-lidded and swaying slightly. “I’m just glad you’re here.” 

They stood there for some time longer. Richie thought about that night on the hill, and how perfect that moment had felt, and that he quite liked this moment too. If he could stay like this forever, he would. This moment felt eternal, the kind of moment he could dream about when things got bad again. 

He thought that being on the outside looking in wasn’t half bad when they were together. 


	5. Broken Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and Richie have a sleepover.

“ But is there something more than that? ”

ㅡ _Nangs_ , **Tame Impala**

“ Eviscerate your fragile frame  
and spill it out in the ragged floor.  
A thousand different versions of yourself. ”

ㅡ _Sleeping Lessons_ , **The Shins**

“ Blackbird singing in the dead of night,  
Take these broken wings and learn to fly. ”

ㅡ _Blackbird_ , **The Beatles**

“ I won’t lie  
and tell you it’s alright. ”

ㅡ _Sleep Apnea_ , **Beach Fossils**

* * *

“Rain’s p-picking up,” Bill said absentmindedly. He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, leaned forward to surveil the road, then moved one hand to flick the windshield wipers on. There had been a few drops here and there when they were leaving the party, but now the rain was coming down in slanted, sharp waves that would have stung their skin if not for the shelter of his dad’s car. Beads of water drummed against the roof, thundering tinnily, and pitter pattered against the window. He thought for a moment, then quickly shifted the wipers to a faster setting. The road was dark and empty. Everyone with half a mind was tucked away inside, waiting out the lightning that would no doubt start soon. “We shuh-shouldn’t have left them there.” He stole an anxious glance out of his side window.

Stan, who had been staring at the glass, watching the droplets at the top of the window inch across and join into large, satisfying pools, turned to him and touched his arm briefly. With his free hand, he dialled down the volume of the radio so they could talk. The music was there, but distant.

“Bill, they’re _okay_. Ben’s mom was already on her way by the time we left. They’re probably almost at Mike’s farm by now,” he said soothingly, trying to keep the tiredness out of his voice. This was the third time Bill had considered turning back, and he was only getting more nervous by the second.

Bill lips pulled into a thin frown. He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “I kn-know, it’s just ㅡ”

“I know,” Stan said calmly, and smiled, “it’s okay.” Bill glanced over, and smiled in spite of himself. Eddie watched them from the back seat. He reached forward and patted Bill’s shoulder clumsily and a bit too hard, but Bill smiled, crossed his arm, and put his hand on Eddie’s, patting it briefly.

It went unsaid in the Losers club. It was October. October meant rain, and lots of it. October meant that Bill’s parents would act a little more distant, a little more cold. October meant the anniversary of Georgie’s dea ㅡ _disappearance_ , and more water to wash away the body they never found. He didn’t like letting his friends out of his sight in October, knowing losing anyone else would destroy him from the inside out.

“He would have been in s-suh-sixth grade this year,” Bill said in a voice barely above a whisper, like he was telling himself and not them, and fell silent. Stan turned slightly and gave Eddie a sad half-smile, which Eddie returned knowingly. Nobody said anything after that. Richie was half-asleep in the back seat beside him, his head lolling forward, his eyelids heavy.

Eddie’s heart skipped a beat when he felt a warmth against his side and a weight on his shoulder. Richie had finally dozed off, and was now leaning against him, his breath tickling his neck. The position was a bit awkward, but he didn’t move a muscle. Instead, he watched their reflection in the rear view mirror, and smiled secretly to himself at how peaceful Richie looked with his dark curls falling across his face.

* * *

Richie’s eyes fluttered open. All he could see were vague shapes and blurry faces, so he shut his eyes again and tried to focus on the sound of his friends’ voices. He was miles underwater again, trying to pull his consciousness back to the surface.

“I’m glad Richie survived tonight,” Stan’s muffled voice broke through, “so I can kill him myself.” Richie managed a weak smile, but couldn’t do much else. He wanted to lift his head, or say something, let them know he was listening, but couldn’t. His entire body felt like a lead weight, like he was coming off of a heavy anaesthesia.

“You’re only s-saying that because you cuh-care about him,” Bill teased.

“Ooh,” Eddie hooted a bit too loudly, sending a sharp jolt of pain through Richie’s head, “you lo-o-ove him.” Richie huffed internally, angry that he was missing this opportunity to point out what an adorable lightweight Eddie is. He wanted so badly to pinch his cheek, enough that he could feel the numbness in his fingers beginning to subside. He lifted his pointer finger an unnoticeable amount, and let it drop back onto the seat beside him.

“Yeah, well,” Stan said, shrugging, “he grows on you.”

“You guh-guys are like b-best friends now.”

“Careful, Billy, you can’t just throw the words ‘best friends’ around in a group of seven,” Eddie said in a giggly voice, wagging his finger scoldingly, “because if everyone has a best friend, then that’s an odd number! No, wait no, that’s a… that’s an even… it’s even. So seven minus six…. equals one person is best-friendless and-and-and… that’s bad.”

“Well said, Edward,” Stan said, reaching over the seat and patting Eddie’s knee. Eddie beamed, not recognizing the sarcasm. “He has a point, ‘Billy’.” Bill shot him an amused glare.

“Eddie, you’re my best friend. And b-beside, you can just have like… a t-trio. A threeway of b-buh-best friends.”

That was all the strength Richie needed to regain control. He shot up, his face lit with joy, and threw his head back in wheezing, hysterical laughter. Bill paled with surprise and, realizing what had happened, rolled his eyes. Richie was holding his stomach, nearly in tears. “Oh my god, did you really just say that? Holy shit. Thank you for that, Denbrough. Really, that’s… wow.” Eddie and Stan were struggling to hide their own smirks.

“You know what I m-m-meant!” Bill snapped, flushing.

“A threeway,” Richie said.

“Of best friends,” Eddie added through laughter.

“I’m gonna turn this c-car around,” Bill grumbled.

“Before you do, Bill,” Richie said in a nasally, geeky voice, pretending to adjust his invisible bowtie, “mind telling me where my glasses are? I can barely see anything.” Everyone fell uncomfortably silent. His grin quickly faded. With a sympathetic smile, Stan reached into his pocket and handed Richie what remained. They were ruined.

“The rest of it’s back in the bathroom.”

“Shit. Well, being able to see was fun while it lasted.”

Eddie leaned over to the window and tapped it with his knuckle. “This’s your house, right, Rich?” Bill followed his finger, muttered a curse and stepped on the brake, pulling roughly into the vacant mouth of Richie’s driveway.

“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Stan commented. The house was completely dark. Richie muttered something along the lines of ‘thank god for that’ and made for the car door, but stopped himself. A weird tension had filled the air so abruptly it was jarring, and it was radiating from the front seat. He and Eddie shared a look. Stan pursed his lips, then turned and said with a very forced smile and the most pleasant voice he could muster, “You guys go ahead. We need to talk for a minute.”

A bit relieved that they didn’t have to stick around for whatever was about to go down, Richie and Eddie obediently climbed out of the car and gravitated towards each other. They hugged their arms to their chests, lips blue and trembling, instantly soaked by the now pouring rain. There was a flash and a distant rumble of thunder, but even over the noise they could hear Stan’s voice, muffled but still intelligible.

“We’re running out of time, Bill.”

“I’m know, and I’m s-sorry, but ㅡ”

Both pretending they couldn’t hear the argument, they quickly ushered themselves to the safety of the house. Richie’s entire body felt weak, and Eddie struggled to walk without swaying, so they held each other’s arms for balance.

They waited in the small dry patch where the roof jutted out over the path. They could vaguely see what was happening in the car. Some sort of argument, obviously, heated at first and then still and quiet. They spoke for a minute or two, and then Bill got out and started making his way towards them. Stan stayed in the car, his head in his hands.

“What was _that_ all about?” Richie asked, and received a sharp elbow in his side from Eddie. He turned to him with a brief look of confusion, and then realization dawned on his face. He grinned guiltily to Bill. “Oh. Sorry.”

Bill just shook his head. “It’s n-nothing,” he said, and watched glumly as Richie fished his keys out of his pocket. His hands were trembling badly. Bill noticed this, and took the keys from him, opened the door, and handed them back. “We were just g-gonna hang out tonight.”

“Why not anymore?” Eddie asked.

Bill smiled at him. “B-because you’re drunk and Richie’s p-probably got a concussion. No way are we leaving you to t-take care of yourselves.”

“This seems like a win-win situation to me,” Richie grinned, “Sleepover!”

“S-sleepover,” Bill said with a smile that seemed a little tired. Eddie returned it half-heartedly, but frowned as he looked back to the car.

Stan was still sitting there. He was crying, and deep down Eddie knew exactly why. The thoughts flickered briefly in the forefront of his mind, thoughts about secret-keeping and clandestine kisses stolen in the backseat. He didn’t like how his heart seemed to reach out to Stan. It fluttered painfully in his chest, the kind of ache that said ‘I know how you feel’. He couldn’t let himself feel that. Those aren’t the kind of things a good boy who likes good girls thinks. Eddie pushed them away and replaced them with a plan.

He waited until Richie had made it halfway through the door, and then he gasped. “Oh my god, what is that?” he whispered in a horrified, hushed voice. He stared off into the distance, his eyes wide, and pointed urgently. Bill felt his heart sink watching him. Eddie was making the kind of face someone would in a slasher flick when the killer was right behind them. He turned to look, and as he was doing so a single, panicked thought flooded his mind: Would he see Not-Georgie again, standing there in his little yellow slicker?

“W-what? What is ㅡ” Bill began, looking around wildly behind him. He was cut off by the sound of the front door slamming. Now he was standing alone outside. Dumbfounded, he began to knock on the door. “Eddie! What the f-fuck!”

Eddie was standing on the other side, his head pressed to the door. Richie gave him an urgent look, just as confused as Bill was. “Sorry, Bill!” Eddie said, and was met with a louder thud.

“Let me in, it’s c-cold as shit out here.”

“No can do!” Eddie yelled.

“Eddie, what the fuck are you doing?” Richie hissed.

Eddie backed away from the door, looking like he already regretted whatever insane idea he’d come up with it. He made his way to the living room and pulled the curtain aside. Bill was already standing on the others side of that window, his arms folded, looking peeved. “Can you p-please tell me what’s going on?”

“Go hang out with Stanley.”

“Wha?” Bill jumped at the mention, and glanced hesitantly back in Stan’s direction. His cheeks were now bright red, and his eyes had a warning glint. “I ㅡ n-no, Eddie, I’m not gonna do that. I’m not leaving you juh-jack asses here alone because you’ll do something s-stupid and die, and it’ll be my f-fault.”

Eddie smushed his face up against the glass, his breath making a little cloud of fog. “Go. Hang. Out. With. Stanley.” He pulled away from the window, struggling to look stoic, and pointed at Bill. He was clearly trying (and failing) to conjure up the commanding look of Uncle Sam’s ‘I Want You’ poster. “That’s ‘n order, young man.”

Richie slowly poked his head out. “Okay, on an unrelated note can we please petition to have Eddie constantly be drunk? Because this is absolutely amazing.”

Bill gave Richie a defeated look. “Richie, tell your better half to let me in the house.”

“ _Better half_?” Richie scoffed, looking a little hurt, “And sorry bub, I’m just here to observe. I can’t control Drunk Eddie, he’s too powerful. Which is exactly why ㅡ”

“Which is exactly why you should n-never petition to have E-Eddie be constantly drunk,” Bill finished for him. Richie’s grin fell.

“Fine then,” he sniffed, “Good luck getting in the house now, Denbrough.” Richie’s head slowly began to vanish from sight. Bill slammed his palm on the glass repeatedly like he was trying to pull him back.

“No, wait, R-Richie! Richie-e-e…” Bill cried, his hands dragging down the window, but Richie was gone. He sighed loudly. “Why are you d-doing this?”

Eddie’s smile wore thin. He looked sad all of a sudden. He glanced over his shoulder, and then leaned in closer. “I’m not stupid, Bill. I know you’re leaving Maine for college.”

Bill chewed his lip. He looked ashamed. “You d-do? I’m sorry I didn’t t-tell you sooner, I just ㅡ”

Eddie shook his head, forcing his smile a little wider. “Are you kidding me? I’m proud of you, Billy! I mean, I’m ‘onna miss you lots, but we always knew you’d go on to great big things, right? The kind of things you can’t do in Derry. And I know… I know that Stan wouldn’t want…” he trailed off, and swallowed, “He wouldn’t want to weigh you down. As long as you’re here you need to be… there.” He gestured to the car, and to Stan. “Did that… make any sense?”

Bill nodded and laughed. “Yeah, it d-did.” He moved as though he was going to say something more, but hesitated, and shut his mouth firmly. He turned his head and watched Stan in the car longingly, then looked back at Eddie. Eddie nodded to him, motioning to go. Bill broke into a smile. He took a few steps back, raising his hand in a wave. “This is why you’re my b-best friend.” Eddie watched him go with a satisfied look. He saw him climb into the car beside Stan. He saw Stan jump, and then say something he couldn’t make out, and then smile.

He stepped away from the window and let the curtain close behind him. For the first time since he’d set foot in Richie’s house, he realized how cold it was. They were both soaked from head to toe in freezing rain, so he’d figured that the cold had just seeped under his skin, but it was the house itself. He watched his own warm breath puff out in front of him.

“It’s f-freezing.”

Richie looked at him, wide-eyed, and then frowned. “Sorry, I’m just used to it by now.” He smiled stalely as he peeled off his drenched sweater and hung it from a hook. “My dad didn’t pay the heating bill. Punishment, I guess. For living here on his dime. He’s barely around anyways, so it doesn’t really bother him.” Eddie paled, opened his mouth to say how horrible that was, but Richie cut him off, not wanting to feel vulnerable. He cut him off with A Voice. A gruff, angry voice that Eddie realized part way through the sentence was intended to be Richie’s dad. “How was my day? How was _my_ day? Well, today I busted my ass just like any other day to put food on the table for my useless wife and delinquent son. I hope you’re ㅡ” His voice broke. It sounded briefly raw, and sad. But he quickly recovered. He resumed the voice, a little weaker this time, but still smiled and moved animatedly like he was doing a comedy bit. “ㅡ I hope you’re thankful for all the sacrifices I make for this family.”

Eddie stared at him, horrified. Richie’s eyes were wide and his chest was heaving. He seemed shocked with himself, like he didn’t know where it had come from. He hurriedly looked away, his face hot, and made for the stairs, which led to a small attic-life loft that Eddie assumed was his bedroom. “We should change out of the wet clothes so you don’t get sick and ㅡ nngh, gah…” Richie paused on the first step and hunched over. One hand gripped the banister, so tight his knuckles turned a hot white, and the other flew to his head and cradled it. His expression was pained as he started to sway.

“Christ, Richie!” Eddie yelped and darted over, wrapping a supportive arm around Richie’s waist. He was pale, more so than usual, almost ghostly. Doing his best to support the weight of the much taller boy, Eddie helped him off the step as carefully as possible and escorted him to the couch. He knelt beside him, searching his face. “Are you okay?”

Richie smiled, his eyes still squeezed shut. He managed a nod. “Just dizzy… I’m fine.”

“I’m getting you some water,” Eddie said as he stood, but felt Richie’s hand wrap limply around his list, tugging him back.

“I’m _fine_. Can we just… watch some TV for a little bit?” he asked pleadingly, “Until this stops?”

He hesitated, then nodded. Looney Tunes was the first thing to come on. Richie couldn’t really see what was happening, but he knew, and began to mutter under his breath. It took a while for Eddie to realize that he was saying the lines, complete with voices and all, just before the characters had a chance to say them.

“It’s true doc, I’m a rabbit alright,” Richie mused in a nasally voice.

“ _It’s true doc, I’m a rabbit alright_ ,” Bugs Bunny said a few seconds later.

“Would you like to shoot me now or wait until you get home?” Richie said again, and Eddie watched him with bewildered amusement as the cartoon character repeated his sentence a beat later.

“How are you doing that?”

Richie blinked at him in surprise, like he hadn’t noticed he’d been doing it. “Oh. I, uh, I’ve seen every episode a million times,” he said, smiling despite sounding tired, “My mom likes this show. She used to laugh a lot, even at the parts that weren’t that funny.” Eddie could tell from his wistful expression that Richie was miles away. “I kept in on all the time, and practiced the voices, and memorized the jokes, so… it’s… it’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“So I could make her happy.”

They looked at each other, and then Richie heard a familiar voice, a familiar bit, and began to join in. “Ah, my darling, how beautiful you are,” he cooed in a faux French accent. It took Eddie by surprise, for a second he thought those words were for him.

He hoped they would be. He listened, feeling weird and light in his chest, until Richie felt better.

* * *

“Richie, I’m not wearing this,” Eddie said with a whine, “Why do you get to wear the Fresh Prince shirt? Mine’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid!” Richie insisted. They were standing in Richie’s room now, rooting through his drawers, scavenging for dry clothes to wear. Eddie glowered at him, one eyebrow raised, and held up the shirt Richie had picked out for him. It was solid black except for bold white letters on the front that read ‘Pussy Slayer’. Richie took one look at it and lost it. “Okay, it’s a little stupid. But it’s perfect for you. Really captures your personality. You get so much ass.”

“Beep beep, Richie,” Eddie deadpanned back, earning a smirk.

Richie reached over and pinched his cheek. “You’re adorable,” he said, and Eddie swatted his hand away. He smiled down at his feet to hide his blush. Richie beamed with satisfaction as he grabbed the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air pajama shirt and draped it over his arm. “You get changed in here, I’ll go to the bathroom.”

Eddie’s entire body tensed at the word. Richie was already halfway downstairs and he considered going after him, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back, insisting he stay because he couldn’t trust him alone behind locked doors anymore. But he didn’t want to come off as clingy or paranoid. And besides, if he’d gotten to know anything about Richie, it was that being told not to do something only made him want to do it more.

He stepped forward, pressed the door to the bedroom shut, then rocked back on his heel. He listened to the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut, then with a bit of reluctance, began to wriggle out of his damp jeans and t-shirt. On went the Pussy Slayer slogan and old shorts that seemed like they’d been left in that drawer just for him.

Downstairs, Richie realized for the first time that being in the bathroom alone was a mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut, sidestepped in front of the mirror. He crossed his shaking fingers like a secret prayer, then cracked open one eye. He sighed in relief when he saw it was just him. Just plain, pale, freckle-faced him. It was a nice change to think of himself as sight for sore eyes, rather than an eyesore. Well, that is, as much as he could see.

He leaned onto one foot and used the other to help tug off the jeans that were plastered to his legs like a second skin. It was hard to keep his balance when his head felt so heavy, full of cotton, with a throbbing pain settled behind his eyes from straining without his glasses. His vision was blurry enough before it started to double and swim. He sucked air sharply through his teeth and winced as a jolt of pain cut through his temple.

When he opened his eyes, the blurriness was gone. He blinked rapidly in confusion. Eyesight like his didn’t just miraculously get better. His blood ran cold as he noticed the only unclear thing about it, a fuzziness around the edges. Almost dreamlike, like the wallpaper was running. He took a step back, shaking his head.

“No, no, please not now,” he whimpered. The light around him flickered, like a dying lamp in a cheap motel, and he was plunged him into a murky darkness. “This isn’t real.” A fiery warmth filled the air, a warmth that he felt deep and real in his chest. The pulsing buzz of the dead light echoed in his ears as he willed his eyes open again. The light was small, a candle in the darkness, coming from the medicine cabinet. He licked his lips and reached out, trying to ignore the presence behind him. The clown that he could feel breathing down his neck. He open the cabinet and the light grew brighter. It was coming from a bottle of pills, neatly marked ‘demerol’. Each little pill was like a firefly. They glowed. They buzzed. They sang for him, and got louder as his fingers traced the cap.

There was a knock at the door.

The light above him flickered on, but only briefly, and died again. He smiled with relief, because for a second he’d forgotten where he was. That he was safe. “This isn’t real,” he whispered to himself again, but Eddie was. _Eddie’s real, and he’s on the other side of the door, and he’s worried about you, and_

_(he thinks the fucking world of you and)_

_he’s glowing._

Just like the pills, there was a kind, yellow light that glowed from outside. He could see it coming in through the cracks under the door. He looked at the pills. He looked for a long time. There was another knock, more frantic this time.

He put the pills away and chose Eddie. Richie swung the door open, smiling so genuinely with relief. Eddie’s fear was evident on his face, and he reached towards him immediately. The light was coming from his chest. Eddie’s voice, scared, asking what was wrong, was what finally broke the spell. He blinked, and the world was blurry again, finally real.

It took a moment to think of something ‘Richie’ to say. “What’s up doc?” he asked. He didn’t even do The Voice, he didn’t even care.

Eddie’s wide eyes searched his face in disbelief, and then his expression shifted to irritation. He folded his arms crossly and pouted. “Richie! I thought you were in trouble!” Richie flushed, his gaze flickering away briefly, and then back to Eddie. He opened the door the rest of the way. He was in his boxers, but his shirt was still on and fully buttoned up underneath a hoodie he’d thrown on for warmth. Eddie looked him up and down, frowning in confusion. “What’s up? What happened to you?”

His gaze lingered on the medicine cabinet. “It’s nothing,” he said absentmindedly as he brought his hands up to the topmost button of his shirt. He fumbled with it for a few seconds, then cursed under his breath. His hands were shaking too badly to undo them. “I’m just havin’ a spot of trouble, deah.”

Without a word or a moment of hesitation, Eddie reached up with hands much smaller than Richie’s and gently moved them out of the way. He ignored their closeness and began unbuttoning the shirt, still taking a few tries due to sloppy motor skills, but eventually succeeding. Richie laughed nervously, and racked his brain for something stupid to say to ease the fluttering in his stomach, but couldn’t think of anything except ‘thanks’.

Eddie smiled, but didn’t look up from the buttons. His tongue was sticking out with effort.

“I can do this part,” Richie said a little too insistently as Eddie began to help ease the sleeves of his hoodie off, “Eddie, will you ㅡ” The sleeves slid down towards his wrists and his heart was pounding. He panicked and seized Eddie’s arm. “ _Stop_.”

Eddie’s hands flew off of him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! What did I…” His eyes trailed down Richie’s arm to his half-exposed wrist. And the scars. He forced his gaze back up. “Oh.”

Richie looked at him, a bit hurt, and then inhaled deeply and pushed past him. “I’ll meet you in the room, okay?”

* * *

They hadn’t said anything about what happened in the bathroom. Richie didn’t want to talk, and Eddie didn’t want to pry. The awkwardness between them had quickly subsided.

“Dare,” Richie said smugly.

With a whine, Eddie fell backwards onto the bed where Richie was sitting cross-legged. His hands covered his face against the glare of the overhead light, then he rolled his eyes over to Richie and pouted at him. “You _always_ pick dare.”

Richie rolled his eyes and grinned downed at him. “Yeah, and you always pick truth.”

Eddie groaned louder and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow folds of the quilt. “I’m running out of dares,” he said, and held up his hand in a pinching gesture, “I’m _this_ close to making you drink out of the toilet bowl or something.”

Richie stuck out his tongue in mock disgust. “Okay, Spaghetti Head, I pick truth.”

Eddie brought his head up to glare at him. “Next time I’m daring you to never call me that again.” He then raised his eyebrows, pretending to think for a bit, as if he hadn’t already had this question in mind since they’d started the game. After a reasonable amount of time, he asked “Who was your first kiss?”

Richie grinned evilly. “Your mother.”

If looks could kill. “Richie, I’m serious!”

“So am I,” Richie said, and laughed as Eddie punched his shoulder. “Okay, okay! Uuh, it was Bev.”

Eddie’s face fell. He felt hot all of a sudden, and sick. “Really?” Richie nodded and tucked his legs up to his chest. He absentmindedly reached to adjust glasses that weren’t there. “Was it, u-um, was it good?” He was finding it difficult to meet Richie’s eyes, so he focused on his hands as he wrung them. His liquid courage was running out, but he still felt just emboldened enough to add: “I guess it was, since you’re dating n’ stuff.”

Richie blinked at him. “I’m dating Bev?” he asked in a bewildered voice, “Gee, I wish she would have told me sooner. I’ve been a _really_ shitty boyfriend.”

Eddie stole a furtive glance, still trying his best to hide his blush. “Sooo… you’re not dating her?”

Richie shook his head emphatically. “No! Where’d you get that from?”

Eddie rolled his eyes, hard. “Gee, I wonder. You literally just admitted to kissing her.”

“Yeah, but I feel like it’s a rite of passage,” Richie said, and stretched. He interlaced his fingers behind him and rested his head on the palms. Eddie cocked an eyebrow at him, urging him to go on. “Like, you can’t be best friends if you don’t kiss at _least once_. Are you seriously saying you and Bill never made out just a little during a sleepover that went a bit too late and a bit too wild?” Eddie shook his head, and Richie snorted with laughter. “You’re missing out, dude. Denbrough’s got kissable lips.”

Eddie smacked his shoulder scoldingly and groaned in disgust. “Why don’t you kiss him if you’re so obsessed with his lips?”

“And make you a cuckold?” Richie gasped, then wagged a finger, “I could never.” They both stared at each other for a prolonged moment, then burst out laughing. Eddie’s sides hurt, and he wheezed and waved his hand urgently like he needed to say something, but would just drop his hand and send himself into another fit of choked giggles. When he’d finally calmed down, he realized that Richie had stopped laughing a while ago, and was watching him soberly.

“ _Well_?” Richie urged.

“What?” he asked, smiling confusedly.

“Who was your first kiss?” Richie insisted, and grinned widely.

Hot shame blossomed in Eddie’s chest. “No fair, I didn’t pick truth.”

“You _always_ pick truth.”

“We’re mixing it up,” Eddie said hastily, color rising in his face, “I-I pick dare.”

“Okay,” Richie huffed, then cracked a wry smile, “I dare you to tell me about your first kiss.”

Eddie buried his head in his hands and sighed loudly. Without looking up, he breathed out, “I… can’t.” He lifted his face up, still avoiding Richie’s eyes. “It hasn’t… I haven’t…”

Richie was grinning like an idiot. “Oh my god. You haven’t? Like, not even a little bit?” Eddie regarded him with a pained expression and rolled onto his side, turning his back to him. Richie, still laughing, added a bit apologetically, “Okay, okay, I never said it was a bad thing. It’ll just be more, y’know…” He trailed off and waved his hands in the air, searching for the word, settling for the only thing that came to mind. “Special.”

Slowly, Eddie looked over his shoulder, and smiled a bit annoyedly. “Wow. Who made you king of deepness all of a sudden?”

“Your mom.”

“Fuck off!”

* * *

In the blackness and quiet, it was harder to ignore the bitter chill in the air. They might as well have been camping, with their only source of heat being each other and a thin layer of quilt separating them from everything else. It felt tense all of a sudden. Trying to actually sleep at a sleepover was like one unending conversation of ‘no, you hang up’, especially when you weren’t sober. There was always something else to say.

A shiver ran up Richie’s spine and he bit his lips to muffle the sound of his own chattering teeth. Trying to fall asleep felt so strange. He would usually be blacked out for this part, and even if the warming effects of his mom’s whiskey were just a placebo, it helped. But he was going to be good. He was going to try. The room was dark, and cold, and silent for a little while, until it was only dark. Eddie whimpered almost inaudibly, seized with a shudder that was so intense it was almost painful. He felt his lower back tense in response, like his entire body was trying to fold in on itself. Richie heard him and reached over, icy fingers touching the other’s shoulders and then retracting quickly, guiltily, as Eddie withdrew from it.

“I’m sorry it’s so cold,” Richie said.

Eddie sounded distant and drowsy. “S’okay.” Another stillness stretched between them. This one felt longer, and when it was broken, it was Eddie’s voice, still sounding sleepy. “Did I ever tell you about Falchuk’s turntable?”

“Is that a fucking sex position?” Richie said, cracking up. His eyes had adjusted just enough to the light for him to catch a glare from Eddie. It was only half-hearted. The poor kid was fading fast. His movements were sluggish.

“No… the biology teacher… Mr. Falchuk.”

“Illegal, but go on.”

“Shut up,” Eddie laughed. When he turned away, there was a shift in his voice. He sounded almost jarringly sober in that moment. “I guess he… I don’t know, he probably feels bad for me.” Richie cocked his head. “I was in his class last year, and more times than not I came in all bruised and beat up. Bet he thought my dad did it, ‘cus he gave me a spare key to his room. He said that if I was ever afraid to go home, or my asthma got real bad, I could let myself into his room after everyone left for the day.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Yeah…” Eddie said absently, and fumbled with the fraying end of the quilt. “It’s a cool classroom, too. Like an aquarium. He has some tanks and likes to keep little fish in them, and he has some vinyls and a turntable. The good stuff, too. I go in there and I turn off all the lights and play some music and… I try to feel okay again.”

“Does it work?”

Eddie seemed distant. “For a little bit. But when I can breathe and think straight again, I realize that all I’m doing is hiding in a classroom, in the dark, alone.”

Silence.

“Was it your dad?”

“What?”

“Was it… your dad? That hurt you.”

Eddie shook his head. “It’s usually Bowers.”

“Good, because I can’t kick your dad’s ass, but I can definitely kick Henry’s,” Richie said with a grin. His eyes slid away from Eddie and up to the ceiling. It looked blue in the darkness, and every once in awhile he would watch the lights of passing cars dance up his wall and over their heads. In the distance, a clap of thunder rumbled through the storm. When the room fell dark again, he spoke, sounding hopeful “Is your dad nice?”

Eddie shrugged, resting his hands on his stomach, “He’s dead.”

Richie’s eyes widened. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

Eddie just waved his hand dismissively and smiled. “Don’t be, I barely knew him.” He paused for a moment, his smile fading, replaced by a contemplative frown. He blinked up at the ceiling. “But I think that’s why my mom’s so… so…” He didn’t know how to put it into words. He didn’t know if he could have, even if he was of sound mind. All he could do was gesture to his head, like he was holding it, like it hurt, or like the world was imploding and he had to cover his ears. “So _messed up_ about everything, an’ about being sick. I don’t remember much about him, but I remember missing how _nice_ she was before he died.” Eddie swallowed hard, and realized he didn’t like being drunk. His dad wasn’t like Georgie was to Bill. He was just shapes in the back of his mind, or a smile in a family portrait, and that’s all he’d ever been. But suddenly it hurt again like it’d hurt when he was five, and he didn’t know what to do with that. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are _you_ sorry?” Richie asked.

“Because I… I think if he’d been around to meet you, he’d’ve liked you.” His words filled the air between them, hovering there. It was comforting. Eddie didn’t see the way Richie smiled to himself.

“Thanks, Pussy Slayer.”

Eddie laughed indignantly, sitting up in the bed. He grabbed a pillow by its case and swung it at him. “You asshole! I’m trying to have a moment here.” Richie took it to the face like a champ, glaring amusedly at Eddie. He eagerly grabbed his own pillow from beneath him and was about to retaliate, but stopped himself. Eddie was kneeling on the bed, his eyes shut and his head lolling forward. He raised an eyebrow and was about to shake him when his head snapped up in surprise.

“Did you just fall asleep?”

“M’tired,” Eddie mumbled back. He started to crawl back to his side of the bed, but was stopped by the feeling of a warm, gentle touch around his wrist. He turned and blinked drowsily at Richie, tilting his head.

“Don’t go yet,” Richie breathed, “It’s, uh, it’s the only way I can see you. If you keep close.”

Sober Eddie’s mind would be going a mile a minute then, analysing all the reasons why it was a bad idea. Drunk Eddie couldn’t be bothered. He happily wiggled his way under the covers, relieved to be out of the frigid air. He snuggled close and rested his head in the space between Richie’s head and shoulder. “S’warm here. Cozy,” he said in a barely audible whisper.

“Uh huh,” was all Richie could manage. He stared at the ceiling helplessly, his heart and head feeling all light and floaty. At least, it felt like that for a second, until the silence between them turned his attention back to a black, oozing, festering voice in the back of his mind. It filled him and tightened in his chest. He thought about the light behind the cabinet.

_He thinks the fucking world of you._

He lay there, feeling Eddie’s head shift as his chest rose and fell. He savored the warmth, and how it felt to have his fingers resting on his chest, gripping his shirt just slightly. He swallowed hard.

“Eddie, can I… tell you something?” Richie asked, his voice shaky. He took the silence as a yes. “I-I did something really bad and I…” he started, and reached up and rested his own hand on top of Eddie’s to help still the pounding in his chest, “I-I know you’ll be mad. You deserve to be. I-I…”

_Say it, say it you stupid piece of shit. Tell him what you’ve done. He’ll hate you. He’ll leave._

All he could hear was Eddie’s slow, steady breathing. He gently nudged him, whispering his name, but there was nothing. He had fallen asleep. Richie watched him, blinking away tears, feeling hollow, because he knew that was it. His last bit of strength to do the right thing. Some sick part of him felt relieved. The headlights from another late night car flickered through the room. In the broken glimpses of light, Richie saw that Eddie was smiling in his sleep.

Lying was so easy.


	6. Goodbye, Stupid Smiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie struggles to accept the truth about himself.

“ Put your head on my shoulder,  
whisper in my ear, baby,  
words I want to hear.  
Tell me, tell me that you love me too. ”  
ㅡ _Put Your Head On My Shoulder_ , **Paul Anka**

“ Goodbye secret files,  
when I'm gone all this information will die.  
Goodbye stupid smiles,  
when you're gone all anyone will do is cry. ”  
ㅡ _Oh! Starving_ , **Car Seat Headrest**

“ And if you have nightmares, we'll dance on the bed.  
I know that you love me, love me,  
even when I lose my head. ”  
ㅡ _Guillotine_ , **Jon Bellion**

“ I know you'd rather have me fake it but I'm not gonna make it. ”  
ㅡ _Lotus Eater_ , **Foster The People**

* * *

“... _that you love me too_ …” 

A familiar song, sweet and crackling with static, drifted out of Richie’s alarm clock radio. It hurt like hell, but as far as rude awakenings went, Eddie could do worse. A sharp, constant pain filled his skull and stung behind his eyes. With a quiet groan, he freed a hand from the quilt and felt the space in the bed beside him. Empty. He couldn’t remember why he’d just reached for somebody. He slept alone, right? Then why were the sheets beside him still warm if the room was so icy cold? He managed to pry his eyes back open. The sun was high in the sky and blinding. Squinting, he could finally make out the details of a room that wasn’t his, then it all made sense. Memories from last night, a bit fuzzy but still intact, flooded his mind.

“Richie?” he called out in his loudest voice, which was a dry croak that barely reached the door. No luck, no sound of footsteps coming to get him. For a second he thought maybe Richie had just up and left, but this was his house. The dulcet tones of Paul Anka were starting to get a bit annoying so early in the morning. He reached for the bedside table blindly, fishing for a button, but found a familiar crinkling of paper instead. It was a messy note, propped up against a fresh glass of water, sided with a couple of painkillers. 

_how’s the hangover coming, Eds?_  
come get breakfast before I eat it all  
: )  
Sincerely,  
RICHIE !!! 

It took a while to will himself out of bed.

* * *

“Wow, you cook?” 

“Jesus christ!” Richie yelped, nearly dropping the skillet, and the pancakes with it. He whipped his head around to glare at Eddie over his shoulder. “Wow, you sneak up on people?” Eddie smiled sheepishly and Richie returned the grin after a few seconds, then nodded. “Uh… yeah. I mean, not well, but yeah.” 

“You’re wearing glasses.” 

“Old pair I found in my drawer,” he said, “but I can still barely see.”

Eddie was standing halfway down the stairs, looking into the kitchen. He teetered there, gripping the banister, reminding himself of Richie from last night. If he looked half as bad as he felt, then he was glad Richie’s attention was invested in trying to flip this one pancake without doing that thing where it sticks to the ceiling and then falls down at a comedically timed moment. He got closer, then watched Richie as his vision steadied and the worst of the pain subsided. He watched how his tongue stuck out just the slightest bit with effort or how his brow furrowed in concentration, and thought it was sweet how hard he was trying to keep himself from not doing that very ‘Richie’ thing, because he could tell he really wanted to. He just wanted to make a good breakfast more. 

Richie noticed his gaze, his lips curling into an uncertain smile. “Lower your expectations, pal. This won’t be a five course meal.” 

Eddie offered a knowing smirk, and took his place at the shockingly small dining table. The smile didn’t last long, it was hard to keep it up when he felt like he’d been run over by a car twice and peeled off the pavement with Richie’s pancake flipper. “Who cares if you give me food poisoning? I was gonna vomit anyways.” He made a gagging noise and then a ‘bleh’ to emphasize his point. The sound of sizzling fizzled away as Richie cautiously removed the skillet from the stove and turned down the heat. Eddie met his hesitancy with impatience, drumming his fingers on the table, “I’m not gonna judge your food, Richie, please.” 

“Hmm…” He held the plate just out of Eddie’s reach, eyeing the breakfast he’d prepared warily.

“ _Richie_.”  
He agonized for one more moment, then sighed out an ‘okay’, and set the plate down. When Eddie took a bite, his eyes widened. Richie grinned painedly and reached for the fork. “Okay, this was a mistake, I’ll get you some cereal ㅡ”

“It’s _good_.” 

“It’s a fluke.”

“Like, _really_ good.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a good luck charm. Usually I have to settle for burnt toast,” he said with a laugh. Eddie fixed him with a puzzled look. It wasn't like him to be modest, or reserved. Was this Richie when there wasn’t an audience? “My parents don’t really cook and apparently you need this thing called ‘money’ for takeout.” 

“Oh god.” 

“What? Is there an eggshell?”

Eddie was staring, horrified, at the time displayed on the microwave. “Please tell me that clock is wrong.” 

Richie inhaled sharply. “Uh, that clock is wrong?”

Eddie huffed. “That clock isn’t really wrong, is it?”

“What do you want from me?” Richie laughed, “No, it’s not. It really is 11:45. Which I thought was pretty good, considering you drank your bodyweight in alcoholic kool-aid or whatever last night.” 

Eddie buried his face in his hands. “I’m so stupid. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.” 

“Oh _shit_ ,” Richie snorted, barely containing his laughter. Eddie glared at him and pushed away from the table. “Okay, okay, game plan: You get dressed, you can use my toothbrush, I’ll ride you double on my bike.” 

“Since when are you the responsible one…?” Eddie was already halfway up the stairs, but he stopped, and looked back. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Richie just smiled. “I do. Gotta keep my good luck charm around somehow,” he said, and winked, starting to clean up the plate Eddie had left behind, “Don’t say I never did nothin’ fo’ ya, kid.” Another Voice to drown out how he really felt. 

For the first time in a long time, Richie had woken up really, truly, genuinely, fleetingly happy.

* * *

“You can’t just sneak into a hospital, Rich!” Eddie hissed, jogging to keep up. Richie strolled casually, his hands buried in the front pockets of his jeans.

“I can! And have, a _lot_ ,” he said, smiling wryly, “And I’m probably going to. A lot. So I can see this adorable face every day.” He pinched Eddie’s cheek, and Eddie laughed out his name, failing to feign irritation. Richie looked satisfied. “That’s the best and worst thing about living in Derry, America’s apathetic sweetheart. Nobody gives a shit.”

Eddie grinned. “That’s depressing.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s the only reason I never get caught,” he said, smirking, “The cops don’t care if a teenage boy who’s rumored to be dead cheats the American healthcare system out of what, like, five bucks?” 

Eddie smiled at him annoyedly. “More like five hundred bucks.” 

Richie rolled his hand. “Eh, who’s counting?”

* * *

The next day, Eddie’s hangover, which he’d played off as a nasty cold, had ran its course. Despite his mother’s worrying, he’d insisted on going to school. He would wish he hadn’t. 

He was used to weird looks, especially at school. Anyone who belonged to a self-titled ‘Loser’s Club’ had to be. He’d catch one or two lingering glares from Greta, or some jock, or Victor Criss in between biology and his regular lunch spot, and none would phase him. Today was different. Today it was _everyone_. As he made his way quickly through the crowded halls of his high school, dodging and slipping between flocks of students, kids who’d never so much as looked at him before watched him, their mouths pulled into tight-lipped smiles, until he passed and they could whisper something or burst into laughter. Patrick Hockstetter flicked his tongue out and licked his lips in a slow, slimy way. But okay, that was relatively normal, right? His heart really dropped when he saw Sally Mueller, making direct and malicious eye contact with him, use her tongue and her hand to gesture a blowjob while Marcia Fadden howled with laughter beside her. 

_No._

_Oh no, no, no._

He rushed past them, keeping his eyes on the floor. A round of snickers filled the hallway, drowning out his panicked thoughts. Familiar voices a few feet away drew his gaze back from his shoes. 

“Who would _do_ something like that?” Ben asked, and bit his fingernail to ease the worry in his voice. He looked instinctively to Bill, who shook his head and shrugged. 

“B-Bowers?” 

“Yeah, if he could write,” Stan said, folding his arms, “He’s not smart enough to pull off something like this. The writing could have been one of his friends but the pictures… it’s too calculated.” They all nodded in agreement.

“Then who?” Mike, hopelessly. 

“Greta Bowie, I bet,” Bev growled, steam practically coming out of her ears. She turned to glare daggers at Sally Mueller, and that’s when her eyes finally landed on Eddie, who was standing down the hallway, listening to them with a stunned, sick expression. She tugged on Stan’s shirt. “Guys.” Eddie started walking again.

“Or m-more than one person,” Bill said, “They used d-different cameras. Some p-polaroids.” 

“It’s like he’s being stalked,” Ben added. 

“ _Guys_ ,” Beverly hissed through gritted teeth. 

“But why him and why _now_?” Mike asked, not noticing Bev’s frantic attempts to shut them up.

“Because he and Richie ㅡ” Stan began to say, but was cut off my Beverly. 

“ _Hey, Eddie_.” She was smiling uneasily, knowing he’d heard everything. She may as well do damage control by stopping Stan from unintentionally upsetting Eddie anymore than he already was; He was going to say something they all knew, anyways.

The hearts of the rest of the Losers simultaneously leaped into their throats. They whipped their heads towards him, meeting his expression of grave concern with shock. He blinked at them, looking from one to the other with desperation. His view finally gravitated to Bill. “What’s going on?”

Mike stepped into his line of vision, resting a hand around Eddie’s upper arm. Even he was panicking, and it showed in his voice, despite how hard he tried to stay calm. “Hey Eddie,” he began tentatively, “maybe you should go back home, okay? Just for today. I’ll walk you.” 

“Just tell me what happened,” Eddie insisted. 

Bill was the next to speak up. “E-Eddie ㅡ”

Beverly sighed and reached for Bill’s shoulder, turning him so she could look pleadingly into his eyes. “Bill, c’mon,” she said, trying to reason, “he can handle it.” 

“Handle _what_?” Eddie snapped, his frustration bubbling to the surface. Secrets always hurt him more than the truth, and he hated how his friends, save Bev, were treating him like a child. 

His friends shared one more pained look, until Bill sighed in resignation. Ben timidly stepped back from the circle and gestured with a tilt of his head down the hallway, in the direction of Eddie’s locker. Ben led Eds with the others following close behind, positioned almost methodically around him like security guards. With squared shoulders and fiery eyes, but ultimately feeling small, Eddie’s friends walked with him and tried to keep him safe from the laughter and the talk that was growing louder and more excited around them. Everyone knew he was about to find out. They ate it up. 

“We can get it removed, Eddie. I just want you to know that, y’know, before you see,” Ben said in a hushed voice, and Eddie smiled his nervous thanks, “This is temporary. You’ll be… you’ll be okay.” 

They rounded the corner, and there it was. Eddie’s locker, surrounded by a sea of snickering teens. The first thing he noticed was the letters. Large, black, slanted, all capitals. It started with a giant F, and then moved vertically down to an A, and then a G, and… 

“ _Oh_ ,” Eddie breathed, his voice small and choked. 

“It’s him,” a girl said as she elbowed her friend. Dozens of pairs of eyes, some curious, some malicious, some pitiful, turned to stare him down. “This is his locker.”

“Give him some room,” Beverly said in an almost threatening tone, her fists perpetually clenched. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, students shuffled out of their (her) way. As Eddie got closer, he realized what Bill had meant about cameras. Several pictures, some with the typical polaroid frame and others, clearly developed in a dark room, were taped to his locker around the word.

Just when he thought his heart couldn’t break anymore, he saw the common theme. Every picture was of him and Richie. He felt sick. Memories replayed in his head, fast and violent like snapshots, as he pieced it all together. He suddenly remembered flashes. One, two, three… more flashes, the light of a camera going off. One of the polaroids had been snapped at the house party, near the very beginning, before the shit had hit the fan, and Richie had his arm thrown around his neck, pulling him into a noogie as he beamed. Some college kid had taken that, how did it end up here, on his locker, with the words ‘lover boys’ scrawled in the margin? Another spark of realization hit him: the photographer had been Sally Mueller’s older sister.

Anxiously, his friends watched him trace his fingers over the pictures. There was him and Richie, taken from what appeared to be the second floor window of a house, looking down on them as they walked together. There was him and Richie getting lunch together. There was him clinging to Richie as he rode double on his bike. There was him and Richie, in all the moments when they thought they were alone. The worst one of all, and ironically the prettiest picture with rain drops on the lens, was of them standing in the rain outside of Rich’s house, in that little dry sweet spot. It was taken from across the street. He remembered thinking at the time that the flash was just lightning. He remembered not thinking twice about the fact that thunder never followed. 

With a hollow laugh, Eddie turned around to face them. “Why are you acting like it’s true?” He had Stan’s half-finished sentence in mind as he said this. “Be-because it’s not. This is all so s-stupid.” He was wringing his hands. 

“N-nobody’s saying that, Eddie,” Bill reassured, “N-not us.” 

Eddie locked eyes with Stan. His were wide, angry, brimming with tears. Almost accusatory. Stan’s just seemed sad. Deeply sad, and apologetic with nothing to apologize for. He opened his mouth, but Eddie filled the silence first. “Why did this happen to _me_?” he asked coldly. They both knew what he really meant was: Why couldn’t it have happened to _you_? Shock crossed Bill and Stan’s expressions, and then hurt. He didn’t mean that. Why did he say that? 

“We’ll find whoever did this,” Ben said, forever recklessly optimistic. The truth was, they wouldn’t. The school would never lift a finger. 

Eddie shook his head, stepping back. “I’m ㅡ I’m sorry,” he choked as his throat began to seize. Bev and Mike recognized the telltale rattling gasps and reached out to him, trying to keep him from falling apart on them, but he dodged. He blinked at them, feeling sick, and small, and alone, as tears streamed down his face. He was surrounded by a wall of faces, a wall of voices, but that hurt less than the expressions on his friends’ faces. With a final, shuddered apology, he ran. The students stepped aside and let him go.

* * *

Sonia Kaspbrak had been waiting for the sound of the door since Eddie had left for school. She waited in her arm chair, only half-watching the television, which was set to only half-volume so she could hear the satisfying click of the doorknob being turned. Because she knew her son, that he was sick, and that he would come crawling back. Mother knows best.

He came home and stumbled into the hallway, his face flushed, his eyes red, his chest heaving as he struggled to breath. She did a fine job of keeping that ‘I told you so’ smile off of her face. She’d told him, she’d told him a million times to stay in bed. But did he listen? Oh no, and look at the poor thing now. She produced one of Eddie’s many spare inhalers, the one she kept in her own pocket for just such an occasion. She cooed little comforting words and smoothed down his hair until he stopped wheezing. 

“Oh, sweet pea, what happened to you?” she asked, pouting sympathetically at him, and felt his forehead, “You’re still sick.”

“I’m not sick.” 

She talked over him, because she knew what was best. “Was it those friends of yours that got you into some sort of trouble?” Sonia asked, sniffing haughtily, “You know, I never liked them. So rough for a boy your size. You’re fragile, Eddie-bear, easily broken. I would know, I raised you! Didn’t I? Yes, I did. Don’t you think I would know you?” She turned and blinked at him expectantly, craving his affirmation, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off with a wave of her hand. What other answer could he possibly give his loyal, loving mother but yes? “I’ll never forgive them after what they did to your poor arm ㅡ”

“It wasn’t my friends, ma,” Eddie said a little too sharply. She got that look in her eye for a moment, the one that turned his blood to ice. He smiled sweetly to soften the blow. “It was just…”

“Then who? Was it that Bowers boy? He’s nothing but trouble, I tell you.” She paused, hands at her hips. Then she turned on her heel. “I’ll give his father such a talking to ㅡ”

“No!” he yelled, holding out his hands, “I-I... don’t know.” Even if it was Henry, calling his dad would only make things worse. Switch tactics, Eddie. “It could have been anyone. It was ㅡ it was _everyone_.”

Her hand flew to cover her mouth. The couch sagged beneath her as she sat beside him, and took his face into her hands. “Oh, you poor thing. What did they do? Did they attack you?” No sign of recognition in his eyes. “Steal from you?” Nothing. “Did they say something?” He looked away. She nodded sagely. “What did they say?” 

“They wrote it on my locker,” he said, knowing he was saying too much, but not knowing how to stop himself, how to lie to her, “They called me a f… a you know… I can’t…” He watched, a pit growing in his stomach, as the sympathy drained from her face.

“Well that’s simply not _true_ ,” she said cheerily. Her voice was completely disconnected from the cold, calculated glint in her eye. They were set low, watching him intently, waiting for a misstep. After all, she knew her son. “You struggle with a lot of illnesses, but nothing so serious. Isn’t that right, Eddie-bear?” 

“Yes, m-mom.” She smiled thinly at the waver in his voice. He moved to stand, but was yanked back down. She latched onto his wrist with her hands and began to tighten her grip, her nails digging into his skin. “I ㅡ ow, mommy, you’re hurting me.” 

“Have you been having devilish thoughts, Eddie?” she asked lovingly, “You can tell me. It’s just like asthma or a fever. It can be treated, sweetheart.” With her free hand she reached up and smoothed his hair back again, her hand tracing down his cheek. “All you need is a mother’s love.” She touched the end of his nose and smiled, but her grip tightened. He gasped, tears stinging his eyes, his hand desperately grasping at hers. 

“I’m not, I’m not sick! Mom, mom...” he whimpered, “Please, it really hurts ㅡ”

Reluctantly, she let go, leaving hot, white marks on his skin. “See? You’re so fragile.” She reached towards him and he winced, only for her to caress his cheek. “That’s why you need me to keep you safe.”

* * *

He heard Richie coming, huffing and puffing, with his bike spokes whirring a mile a minute. He didn’t look up from his knees as he practically collapsed at his side, and made a point of avoiding eye contact when Richie beamed at him, his hair messy and clinging to his forehead with sweat. He was sitting on the curb, where the pavement crumbled and gave way to a sloping, grassy hill. 

“Where were you?” Eddie asked bitterly, glancing at Richie just long enough for him to notice the redness in his eyes and his tear-stained cheeks. “I called you.” 

He paled, and ran his fingers through his curls to cool off his face. “I’m sorry, I’ve been… busy. I came as fast as I could.” 

Eddie looked up, the hardness in his face softening slightly. “What were you doing?” 

“Your mom,” Richie said, and broke into a rakish grin, “I came as fast as I could.” Eddie shot him a withering look, and Richie swallowed his laughter. “Sorry.” Eddie just shrugged, and returned to staring aimlessly elsewhere. Every few seconds he would sniffle so hard it was almost painful. Each time, Richie would wince along with him, gazing sadly at the side of his face. “You don’t have to explain what happened.” 

Eddie lifted his head, eyes shifting to him nervously. “Did they tell you?”

“Not really,” Richie said with a shrug, “I ran into them earlier. They were all on their bikes, split up, looking for you for like, an hour. They were really worried about you. They told me the gist, which was that somebody wrote something awful on your locker and you were pretty fucked up about it, but they said they thought it might just make things worse if they told me what...” Eddie smiled faintly, obviously relieved. “Aaaand, then I kinda, sorta, went to the school and looked anyways.” He smiled gingerly as Eddie’s shoulders slumped. 

“I’m sorry," Eddie sniffled. 

Richie balked. “Why should _you_ be ㅡ”

“I didn’t mean to get you caught up in all of this,” he said, running his fingers through his hair, “And it’s only going to get worse. Before it was just a few people and that was fine, but this everybody. _Everybody_ knows, e-everybody _thinks_ that I’m…” 

Richie waved his hand dismissively, then hooked his arm around Eddie’s neck and pulled him into a noogie. “They don’ know wha’ ther’ talkin’ ‘bout, Eds,” he said in a deep cowboy-esque voice. It reminded him of the picture, the one from the party, and the thought of it was so jarring that he pushed Richie away a little roughly. 

“Why does everyone always say that?” he yelled, catching Richie completely off guard. He blinked in surprise, rubbing his shoulder where Eddie had shoved him off like he’d been burned.

“... what?” 

“It’s like what Ben told me once. When he first moved here, and he had no friends, and Henry knocked his lights out for being fat, he went to his mom and told her what happened and all she could think to say was ‘Oh, sweetheart, you’re not fat! You’re just big-boned!’,” he said, “But he _is_ , and he knows, and saying it’s not true won’t make it that way.” 

Richie chewed his lip. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know, and it’s okay. But maybe what he needed to hear was that she loved him, and that he was good, fat and all. I don’t ㅡ” he stopped himself briefly, his eyes searching Richie’s face as he debated whether or not to really say it, and then drew a shuddering breath before continuing, “ㅡ I don’t want them to be right about me. But… but what if they are, Richie? What if it’s... i-if it’s true?” He burst into tears again. He shook as he cried. Richie watched him helplessly, not knowing what to say. “Would you hate me?” 

Richie shook his head. “No, Iㅡ Of _course_ not.”

Eddie sniffled, looking hopeful. “And… the Losers?” 

“... are called the ‘Losers’ for a reason. Their whole deal is that they’re outcasts. They love you to pieces, Eds.” 

There was something sour in his voice when he spoke again. “And… my mom?” Richie scanned Eddie’s face, unsettled, until his eyes landed on his wrist instead. There were bruises in the shape of a hand,

(like Beverly’s throat, remnants of him on the ghost of her)

still fresh and painful.

“Did _she_ do that to you?” he asked worriedly, but Eddie didn’t reply. The silence stretched between them, until Richie got up from the curb and dusted off his jeans. He held his hand out for Eddie to take. “Let me show you something. I’ll ride you double.”

* * *

“Close your eyes.” 

Eddie sighed and clapped his hand over his line of sight, putting his other in Richie’s. “Is this really necessary?” Richie tugged him through the halls eagerly.

“Absolutely.”

Eddie frowned, no excitement in his voice. “Why did you bring me here, Richie? I already saw my locker. This isn’t…” he began, and sighed, “funny.” Richie just laughed and brushed it off, saying he wouldn’t do something like that, sounding a little hurt. 

He felt Richie’s hand leave his and then rest on his shoulder to spin him around. “Okay, open them!” Eddie hesitated for a moment, not sure what to expect. When he did look, he just stood there, wordlessly, dumbfounded. Richie’s expectant grin quickly faded, and he started fidgeting, glancing between Eddie and what he was staring blankly at: his locker, completely clean. No pictures and polaroids taped all over. No giant F, or A, or, G, etc. He had to do a double take to make sure it was really his. Richie finally interrupted his awed silence. “This is why I didn’t answer any of your calls. A-and, I’m sorry. I should have been there for you, and not here doing this. This was so stupid, but I just thought ㅡ” 

He stopped mid-sentence, because Eddie’s arms were wrapped around him. He hugged him tight, smiling widely into the fabric of Richie’s hoodie. “ _Thank_ you.” Richie arm’s hovered out in shock until a slow, soft smile spread across his lips. He lowered his arms around Eddie and hugged back.

“Sure thing, short stop.”


End file.
